,Hur 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


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CRITICAL,  HISTORICAL, 


AN1> 

MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 
AND  POEMS. 


BT 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAT. 


VOLUME  L 


^#OSTON  COILlux  ;-r: 
ifc. Rn,;.. 


THE  MIDLAND  BOOK  COMPANY, 
CHICAGO. 


CONTENTS 


PAOB. 

>/  Fragments  of  a Roman  Tale.  {KnighVs  Quarterly 

Magazine^  June  1823.)  ......  7 

On  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature.  {KnighVs 

Quarterly  Magazine^  June  1823.)  . ...  .20 

Scenes  from  “ Athenian  Revels.’’  {KnighVs  Quarterly 

Magazine,  January  1824.)  • . . . . .27 

Criticisms  on  the  Principal  Italian  Writers.  No.  I. 

Dante.  (Knighfs  Quarterly  Magazine,  January  1824.)  . 47 

Criticisms  on  the  Principal  Italian  Writers.  No.  II. 

Petrarch.  {Knight*s  Quarterly  Magazine,  April  1824.).  64 

Some  Account  of  the  Great  Lawsuit  between  the 
Parishes  of  St.  Dennis  and  St.  George  in  the 
Water.  (Knight'^ s Quarterly  Magazine,  April  1824.)  . 78 

A Conversation  between  Mr.  Abraham  Cowley  and 
Mr.  John  Milton  touching  the  Great  Civil  War. 
(^Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine,  August  1824.)  ...  86 

\/On  the  Athenian  Orators.  {KnighVs  Quarterly  Magazine, 

August  1824.) 104 

A Prophetic  Account  of  a Grand  National  Epic 
Poem,  to  be  entitled  “The  Wellingtoniad,” 

AND  to  be  Published  a.d.  2824.  {KnighVs  Quarterly 

Magazine,  November  1824.) 117 

On  Mitford’s  History  of  Greece.  {KnighVs  Quarterly 

j Magazine,  November  1824.) 126 

^Milton.  (Edinburgh  Review,  August  1825.)  • • • 148 

Machiavelli.  {Edinburgh  Review,  March  1827.)  • • 193 

John  Dryden.  ^(^Edinhurgh  Review,  January  1828.)  . • 231 


iv 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

'-4Ii8TORY.  (Edinburgh  Review,  ....  270 

Hallam’s  Constitutional  History.  {Edinburgh  Review, 

September  1828.) 310 

Mill  on  Government.  (Edinburgh  Review,  March  1829.)  388 

Westminster  Reviewer’s  Defence  of  Mill.  (Edin- 
burgh Review,  June  1829) 420 

Utilitarian  Theory  of  Government.  {Edinburgh  Re- 
view, October  1829.) 447 

Southey’s  Colloquies  on  Society.  (Edinburgh  Review, 

January,  1830.) 475 

Mr.  Robert  Montgomery’s  Poems.  {Edinburgh  Review, 

April  1830.) 515 

Sadler’s  Law  of  Population.  {Edinburgh  Review,  July 

1830. ) 533 

Southey’s  Edition  of  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  (Edin- 
burgh Review,  December  1830.) 558 

Sadler’s  Refutation  Refuted.  (Edinburgh  Review, 

January  1831.)  . 570 

Civil  Disabilities  of  the  Jews.  (Edinburgh  Review, 

January  1831.) 598 

Moore’s  Life  of  Lord  Byron.  (Edinburgh  Review,  June 

1831. ) 610 

Croker’s  Edition  of  Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson. 

(Edinburgh  Review,  September  1831.)  . . . .611 

Lord  Nugent’s  Memorials  of  Hampden.  (Edinburgh 

Review,  December  1831.) 682 

Rev.  Edward  Nare’s  Memoirs  of  Lord  Burleigh. 

(Edinburgh  Review,  April  1832.)  . . . . . 731 

Etienne  Dumont’s  Memoirs  of  Mirabel.  (Edinburgh 

July  1832.) 756 

Lord  Mahon’s  History  of  the  War  of  the  Succession 

IN  Spain.  {Edinburgh  Raview,  January  1838.)  • • 782 


PREFACE 


Lord  Macadlat  always  looked  forward  to  a publi- 
catior  of  his  miscellaneous  works,  either  by  himself  or 
by  those  who  should  represent  him  after  his  death. 
And  latterly  he  expressly  reserved,  whenever  the  ar- 
rangements as  to  copyright  made  it  necessary,  the  right 
of  such  publication. 

The  collection  which  is  now  published  comprehends 
some  of  the  earliest  and  some  of  he  latest  works  which 
he  composed.  He  was  born  on  25th  October,  1800; 
commenced  residence  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
in  October,  1818 ; was  elec^'ed  Craven  University 
Scholar  in  1821 ; graduated  as  B.  A.  in  1822 ; was 
elected  fellow  of  the  college  in  October,  1824;  was 
called  to  the  bar  in  February  1826,  when  he  joined  the 
Northern  Circuit ; and  was  elected  member  for  Caine 
in  1830.  After  this  last  event,  he  did  not  long  continue 
to  practise  at  the  bar.  lie  went  to  India  in  1834, 
whence  he  returned  in  June,  1838.  He  was  elected 
member  for  Edinburgh  i 183f , and  lost  this  seat  in  July, 
1847 ; and  this  (though  he  was  afterwards  again  elected 
for  that  city  in  July,  1852,  without  being  a candidate) 
ma}’’  be  considered  as  the  last  instance  of  his  taking  an 
active  part  in  the  contests  of  public  life.  These  few 
dates  are  mentioned  for  th':  purpose  of  enabling  the 


Vi 


PREFACE. 


reader  to  assign  the  articles,  now  and  previously  pub- 
lished, to  the  principal  periods  into  which  the  author’s 
life  may  be  divided. 

The  articles  published  in  Knight’s  Quarterly  Maga- 
zine were  composed  during  the  authors  residence  at 
college,  as  B.  A.  It  may  be  remarked  that  the  first  two 
of  these  exhibit  the  earnestness  with  which  he  already 
endeavored  to  represent  to  himself  and  to  others  the 
scenes  and  persons  of  past  times  as  in  actual  existence. 
Of  the  Dialogue  between  Milton  and  Cowley  he  spoke, 
many  years  after  its  publication,  as  that  one  of  his 
works  which  he  remembered  with  most  satisfaction. 

Some  of  the  poems  now  collected  have  already  ap- 
peared in  print;  others  are  supplied  by  the  recollection 
of  friends.  The  first  two  are  published  on  account  of 
their  having  been  composed  in  the  author’s  childhood. 


MACAULAY’S 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


ESSAYS. 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A ROMAN  TALE. 

{Knight* s Quarterly  Magazine^  June,  1823.) 
****** 

It  was  an  hour  after  noon.  Ligarius  was  returning 
trom  the  Campus  Martins.  He  strolled  through  one  of  the 
streets  which  led  to  the  Forum,  settling  his  gown,  and  cal- 
culating the  odds  on  the  gladiators  who  were  to  fence  at 
the  appt'oaching  Saturnalia.  While  thus  occupied,  he  over- 
took Flaminius,  who,  with  a heavy  step  and  melancholy  face, 
was  sauntering  in  the  same  direction.  The  light-hearted 
young  man  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve. 

‘‘Good-day,  Flaminius.  Are  you  to  be  of  Catiline’s 
party  this  evening  ? ” 

“Not  I.” 

“Why  so?  Your  little  Tarentine  girl  will  break  her 
heart.” 

“ No  matter.  Catiline  has  the  best  cooks  and  the  finest 
V ine  in  Rome.  There  are  charming  women  at  his  parties. 
But  the  twelve-line  board  and  the  dice-box  pay  for  all. 
The  Gods  confound  me  if  I did  not  lose  two  millions  of  ses- 
terces last  night.  My  villa  at  Tibur,  and  all  the  statues 
that  my  father  the  praetor  brought  from  Ephesus,  must  go 
to  the  auctioneer.  That  is  a high  price,  you  will  acknowl- 
edge, even  for  Phoenicopters,  Chian,  and  Callinice.” 

“High  indeed,  by  Pollux.” 

“ And  that  is  not  the  worst.  I saw  several  of  the  lead- 
ing senators  this  morning.  Strange  things  are  whispered 
in  the  higher  political  circles.” 


10 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


lady  home.  Unfortunately  old  Quintus  Lutatius  had  come 
back  from  liis  villa  in  Campania,  in  a whim  of  jealousy.  He 
was  not  expected  for  three  days.  There  was  a fine  tumult. 
The  old  fool  called  for  his  sword  and  his  slaves,  cursed  his 
wife,  and  swore  that  he  would  cut  Caesar’s  throat.” 

“ And  Caesar  ? ” 

“He  laughed,  quoted  Anacreon,  trussed  his  gown  round 
his  left  arm,  closed  with  Quintus,  flung  him  down,  twisted 
his  sword  out  of  his  hand,  burst  through  the  attendants,  ran 
a freed-man  through  the  shoulder,  and  was  in  the  street  in 
an  instant.” 

“ Well  done  ! Here  he  comes.  Good-day,  Caius.” 

Caesar  lifted  his  head  at  the  salutation.  His  air  of  deep 
abstraction  vanished ; and  he  extended  a hand  to  each  of  the 
friends. 

“ How  are  you  after  your  last  night’s  exploit  ? ” 

“ As  well  as  possible,”  said  Caesar  laughing. 

“ In  truth  we  should  rather  ask  how  Quintus  Lutatius 

^s.” 

“ He,  I understand,  is  as  well  as  can  be  expected  of  a 
man  with  a faithless  spouse  and  broken  head.  His  freed- 
man  is  most  seriously  hurt.  Poor  fellow ! he  shall  have 
half  of  whatever  I win  to-night.  Flaminius,  you  shall  have 
your  revenge  at  Catiline’s.” 

“You  are  very  kind.  I do  not  intend  to  be  at  Catiline’s 
till  I wish  to  part  with  my  town-house.  My  villa  is  gone 
iJready.” 

“ Not  at  Catiline’s,  base  spirit ! You  are  not  of  his 
mind,  my  gallant  Ligarius.  Dice,  Chian,  and  the  loveliest 
Gieek  singing-girl  that  was  ever  seen.  Think  of  that, 
Ligarius.  By  Venus,  she  almost  made  me  adore  her,  by 
telling  me  that  I talked  Greek  with  the  most  Attic  accent 
that  she  had  heard  in  Italy.” 

“ I doubt  she  will  not  say  the  same  of  me,”  replied  Liga- 
rius.  “ I am  just  as  able  to  decq^her  an  obelisk  as  to  read  a 
line  of  Homer.” 

“ You  barbarous  Scythian,  who  had  the  care  of  your  ed> 
cation  ? ” 

“ An  old  fool, — a Greek  pedant,* — a Stoic.  He  told  me 
that  pain  was  no  evil,  and  flogged  me  as  if  he  thought  so. 
At  last  one  day,  in  the  middle  of  a lecture,  I set  fire  to  his 
enormous  filthy  beard,  singed  his  face,  and  sent  him  roaring 
out  of  the  house.  There  ended  my  studies.  From  that 
time  to  this  I have  had  as  little  to  do  with  Greece  as  the 


J'RAGMENTS  OF  A ROMAN  TALE.  11 

wine  that  your  poor  old  friend  Lutatius  calls  his  delicious 
Samian.” 

“ Well  done,  Ligarius.  I hate  a Stoic.  I wish  Marcus 
Cato  had  a beard  that  you  might  singe  it  for  him.  The  fooi 
talked  his  two  hours  in  the  Senate  yesterday,  without 
changing  a muscle  of  his  face.  He  looked  as  savage  and  as 
motionless  as  the  mask  in  which  Roscius  acted  Alecto.  I 
detest  every  thing  connected  with  him.” 

“ Except  his  sister,  Servilia.” 

“ True.  She  is  a lovely  woman.” 

“ They  say  that  you  have  told  her  so,  Gains.” 

“ So  I have.” 

And  that  she  was  not  angry.” 

‘‘  What  woman  is  ? ” 

“ Ay, — but  they  say — 

“No  matter  what  they  say.  Common  fame  lies  like  a 
Greek  rhetorician.  You  might  know  so  much,  Ligarius, 
without  reading  the  philosophers.  But  come,  I will  intro- 
duce you  to  little  dark-eyed  Zoe.” 

“ I tell  you  I can  speak  no  Greek.” 

“ More  shame  for  you.  It  is  high  time  that  you  should 
begin.  You  will  never  have  such  a charming  instructress. 
Of  what  was  your  father  thinking  when  he  sent  for  an  old 
Stoic  with  a long  beard  to  teach  you  ? There  is  no  language- 
mistress  like  a handsome  woman.  When  I was  at  Athens, 
I learnt  more  Greek  from  a pretty  flower-girl  in  the  PeirsBus 
than  from  all  the  Portico  and  the  Academy.  She  was  no 
Stoic,  Heaven  knows.  But  come  along  to  Zoe.  I will  be 
your  interpreter.  Woo  her  in  honest  Latin,  and  I will  turn 
it  into  elegant  Greek  between  the  throws  of  dice.  I can 
make  love  and  mind  my  game  at  once,  as  Flaminius  can  tell 
you.” 

“ Well,  then,  to  be  plain,  Caesar,  Flaminius  has  been  talk- 
ing to  me  about  plots,  and  suspicions,  and  politicians.  I 
never  plagued  myself  with  such  things  since  Sylla’s  and 
Marius’s  days ; and  then  I never  could  see  much  difference 
between  the  parties.  All  that  I am  sure  of  is,  that  those 
who  meddle  with  such  affairs  are  generally  stabbed  or 
strangled.  And,  though  I like  Greek  wdne  and  handsome 
women,  I do  not  wish  to  risk  my  neck  for  them.  Now,  tell 
me  as  a friend,  Caius  ; — is  there  no  danger  ? ” 

“ Danger ! ” repeated  Caesar,  with  a short,  fierce,  dis- 
dainful laugh  : “ what  danger  do  you  apprehend?  ” 

“ That  you  should  best  know,”  said  Flaminius ; “ you 


12 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


are  far  more  intimate  witli  Catiline  tlian  I.  But  I advise 
you  to  be  cautious.  The  leading  men  entertain  strong  sus- 
Dicions.” 

Cfesar  drew  up  his  figure  from  its  ordinary  state  of  grace- 
ful relaxation  into  an  attitude  of  commanding  dignity,  and  re- 
])lied  in  a voice  of  which  the  deep  and  impassioned  melody 
formed  a strange  contrast  to  the  humorous  and  affected  tone 
of  his  ordinary  conversation.  “ Let  them  suspect.  They 
suspect  because  they  know  what  they  have  deserved.  What 
have  they  done  for  Rome  ? — What  for  mankind  ? — Ask  the 
citizens.  Ask  the  provinces.  Have  they  had  any  other  ob- 
ject than  to  perpetuate  their  own  exclusive  power,  and  to 
keep  us  under  the  yoke  of  an  oligarchical  tyranny,  which 
unites  in  itself  the  worst  evils  of  every  other  system,  and 
combines  more  than  Athenian  turbulence  with  more  than 
Persian  despotism  ? ” 

“ Good  Gods  ! Caesar.  It  is  not  safe  for  you  to  speak,  or 
for  us  to  listen  to,  such  things,  at  such  a crisis.” 

“ Judge  for  yourselves  what  you  Avill  hear.  I will  judge 
for  myself  what  I will  speak.  I was  not  twenty  years  old, 
when  I defied  Lucius  Sylla,  surrounded  by  the  spears  of  le- 
gionaries and  the  daggers  of  assassins.  Do  you  suppose  that 
I stand  in  awe  of  his  paltry  successors,  who  have  inherited 
a power  which  they  never  could  have  acquired  ; who  would 
imitate  his  proscriptions,  though  they  have  never  equalled 
his  conquests  ? ” 

“ Pompey  is  almost  as  little  to  be  trifled  with  as  Sylla. 
I heard  a consular  senator  say  that,  in  consequence  of  the 
present  alarming  state  of  affairs,  he  ivould  probably  be  re- 
called from  the  command  assigned  to  him  by  the  Manilian 
law.” 

Let  him  come, — the  pupil  of  Sylla’s  butcheries, — ^the 
gleaner  of  Lucullus’s  trophies, — the  thief-taker  of  the  Sen- 
ate.” 

“ For  heaven’s  sake,  Cains ! — if  you  knew  what  the  Con- 
sul said — 

“ Something  about  himself,  no  doubt.  Pity  that  such  tab 
ents  should  be  coupled  with  such  cowardice  and  coxcombry 
He  is  the  finest  speaker  living, — infinitely  superior  to  what 
Hortensius  was,  in  his  best  days  ; — a charming  companion, 
except  when  he  tells  over  for  the  twentieth  time  all  the  jokes 
that  he  made  at  Verres’s  trial.  But  he  is  the  despicable 
tool  of  a despicable  party.” 

‘‘Your  language,  Cains,  convinces  me  that  the  reports 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A ROMAN  TALE. 


13 


which  have  been  circulated  are  not  without  foundation.  I 
will  venture  to  prophesy  that  within  a few  months  the  re- 
public will  pass  through  a whole  Odyssey  of  strange  adven- 
tures.” 

‘‘  I believe  so  ; an  Odyssey  of  which  Pompey  will  be  the 
Polyphemus,  and  Cicero  the  Siren.  would  have  the  state 
imitate  Ulysses  : show  no  mercy  to  the  former  ; but  contrive, 
if  it  can  be  done,  to  listen  to  the  enchanting  voice  of  the 
other,  without  being  seduced  by  it  to  destruction.” 

‘‘  But  whom  can  your  party  produce  as  rivals  to  these 
two  famous  leaders  ? ” 

“ Time  will  show.  I would  hope  that  there  may  arise  a 
man,  whose  genius  to  conquer,  to  conciliate,  and  to  govern, 
may  unite  in  one  cause  an  oppressed  and  divided  people ; — 
may  do  all  that  Sylla  should  have  done,  and  exhibit  the 
magnificent  spectacle  of  a great  nation  directed  by  a great 
mind.” 

“ And  where  is  such  a man  to  be  found  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  where  you  would  least  expect  to  find  him.  Per 
haps  he  may  be  one  whose  powers  have  hitherto  been  con- 
cealed in  domestic  or  literary  retirement.  Perhaps  he  may 
be  one,  who,  while  waiting  for  some  adequate  excitement, 
for  some  worthy  opportunity,  squanders  on  trifles  a genius 
before  which  may  yet  be  humbled  the  sword  of  Pompey 
and  the  gown  of  Cicero.  Perhaps  he  may  now  be  dis- 
puting with  a sophist  ; perhaps  prattling  with  a mistress ; 
perhaps — ” and,  as  he  spoke,  he  turned  away,  and  re- 
sumed his  lounge,  “ strolling  in  the  Forum.” 

♦ ****## 

It  was  almost  midnight.  The  party  had  separated.  Cat- 
iline and  Cethegus  were  still  conferring  in  the  supper-room, 
which  was,  as  usual,  the  highest  apartment  of  the  house.  It 
formed  a cupola,  from  which  windows  opened  on  the  flat  roof 
that  surrounded  it.  To  this  terrace  Zoe  had  retired.  With 
eyes  dimmed  \rith  fond  and  melancholy  tears,  she  leaned  over 
the  balustrade,  to  catch  the  last  glimpse  of  the  departing  form 
of  Caesar,  as  it  grew  more  and  more  indistinct  in  the  moon- 
light. Had  he  any  thought  of  her  ? Any  love  for  her?  He, 
the  favorite  of  the  high-born  beauties  of  Rome,  the  most 
eloquent  of  its  nobles  ? It  could  not  be.  His  voice  had, 
indeed,  been  touchingly  soft  whenever  he  addressed  her. 
There  had  been  a fascinating  tenderness  even  in  the  vivacity 
of  his  look  and  conversation.  But  such  were  always  the 


j 


14  Macaulay’s  miscellanisous  writings. 

marmers  of  Cfesar  towards  women.  ITe  had  wreathed  a 
sprig  of  myrtle  in  lier  liair  as  she  was  singing.  She  took  it 
from  her  dark  ringlets,  and  kissed  it,  and  wept  over  it,  and 
thouglit  of  the  sweet  legends  of  her  own  dear  Greece, — of 
youths  and  girls,  who,  pining  away  in  hopeless  love,  had  been 
transformed  into  flowers  by  the  compassion  of  the  gods ; 
and  she  wished  to  become  a flower,  which  Caesar  might 
sometimes  touch,  though  he  should  touch  it  only  to  weave 
a crown  for  some  prouder  and  happier  mistress. 

She  was  roused  from  her  musings  by  the  loud  step  and 
voice  of  Cethegus,  who  was  pacing  furiously  up  and  down 
the  supper-room. 

“May  all  the  gods  confound  me,  if  Caesar  be  not  the 
deepest  traitor,  or  the  most  miserable  idiot,  that  ever  inter- 
meddled with  a plot  ! ” 

Zoe  shuddered.  She  drew  nearer  to  the  window.  She 
stood  concealed  from  observation  by  the  curtain  of  fine  net- 
work which  hung  over  the  aperture,  to  exclude  the  annoying 
insects  of  the  climate. 

“And  you,  too ! ” continued  Cethegus,  turning  fiercely  on 
his  accomplice  ; “ you  to  take  his  part  against  me  — you, 
who  proposed  the  scheme  yourself ! ” 

“ My  dear  Cains  Cethegus,  you  will  not  understand  me. 
I proposed  the  scheme ; and  I will  join  in  executing  it.  But 
policy  is  as  necessary  to  our  plans  as  boldness.  I did  not 
wish  to  startle  Caesar — to  lose  his  co-operation — perhaps  to 
send  him  off  with  an  information  against  us  to  Cicero  and 
Catulus.  He  was  so  indignant  at  your  suggestion,  that  all 
my  dissimulation  was  scarcely  sufficient  to  prevent  a total 
rupture.” 

“ Indignant  ! The  gods  confound  him  ! — He  prated 
about  humanity,  and  generosity,  and  moderation.  By  Her- 
cules, I have  not  heard  such  a lecture  since  I wsls  withXeno- 
c hares  at  Rhodes.” 

“ Caesar  is  made  up  of  inconsistences.  He  has  boundless 
ambition,  unquestioned  courage,  admirable  sagacity.  Yet  I 
have  frequently  observed  in  him  a womanish  weakness  at  the 
sight  of  pain.  I remember  that  once  one  of  his  slaves  was 
taken  ill  while  carrying  his  litter.  He  alighted,  put  the 
fellow  in  his  place,  and  walked  home  in  a fall  of  snow.  I 
wonder  that  you  could  be  so  ill-advised  as  to  talk  to  him  of 
massacre,  and  pillage,  and  conflagration.  You  might  have 
foreseen  that  such  propositions  would  disgust  a man  of  his 
temper.” 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A ROMAN  TALE. 


I do  not  know.  I have  not  your  self-command,  Lucius. 
I hate  such  conspirators.  What  is  the  use  of  them  ? Wo 
must  have  blood-— blood, — hacking  and  tearing  work — 
bloody  work  ! ” 

“ Do  not  grind  your  teeth,  my  dear  Caius  ; and  lay  down 
the  carving-knife.  By  Hercules,  you  have  cut  up  all  the 
stuffing  of  the  couch.” 

“ No  matter;  we  shall  have  couches  enough  soon, — and 
down  to  stuff  them  with, — and  purple  to  cover  them, — and 
pretty  women  to  loll  on  them, — unless  this  fool,  and  sxuth 
as  he,  spoil  our  plans.  I had  something  else  to  say.  The 
essenced  fop  wishes  to  seduce  Zoe  from  me.” 

“ Impossible  ! You  misconstrue  the  ordinary  gallantries 
which  he  is  in  the  habit  of  paying  to  every  handsome 
face.” 

“ Curse  on  his  ordinary  gallantries,  and  his  verses,  and 
his  compliments,  and  his  sprigs  of  myrtle  ! If  Caesar  should 
dare — by  Hercules,  I will  tear  him  to  pieces  in  the  middle 
of  the  Forum.” 

“ Trust  his  destruction  to  me.  We  must  use  his  talents 
and  influence — thrust  him  upon  every  danger — make  him 
our  instrument  while  we  are  contending — our  peace-offering 
to  the  Senate  if  we  fail — our  first  victim  if  we  succeed.” 

“ Hark  ! what  noise  was  that  ? ” 

Somebody  in  the  terrace  ! — lend  me  your  dagger.” 

Catiline  rushed  to  the  window.  Zoe  was  standing  in 
the  shade.  He  stepped  out.  She  darted  into  the  room — 
passed  like  a flash  of  lightning  by  the  startled  Cethegus — 
flew  down  the  stairs — through  the  court — through  the  vesti- 
bule— through  the  street.  Steps,  voices,  lights,  came  fast  and 
confusedly  behind  her  ; — but  with  the  speed  of  love  and 
terror  she  gained  upon  her  pursuers.  She  fled  through  the 
wilderness  of  unknown  and  dusky  streets,  till  she  found  her- 
.elf,  breathless  and  exhausted,  in  the  midst  of- a crowd  of  gal- 
lants, who,  with  chaplets  on  their  heads,  and  torches  in  their 
hands,  were  reeling  from  the  portico  of  a stately  mansion. 

The  foremost  of  the  throng  was  a youth  whose  slender 
figure  and  beautiful  countenance  seemed  hardly  consistent 
with  his  sex.  But  the  feminine  delicacy  of  his  features  ren- 
dered more  frightful  the  mingled  sensuality  and  ferocity  of 
their  expression.  The  libertine  audacity  of  his  stare,  and 
the  grotesque  foppery  of  his  apparel,  seemed  to  indicate  at 
least  a partial  insanity.  Flinging  one  arm  round  Zoe,  and 
tearing  away  her  veil  with  the  other,  he  disclosed  to  the 


16  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 

gaze  of  his  thronging  companions  the  regular  features  and 
large  dark  eyes  whicli  characterize  Athenian  beauty. 

“ Clodius  has  all  the  luck  to-night,”  cried  Ligarius. 

“Not  so,  by  Hercules,”  said  Marcus  Coelius;  “the  girl 
is  fairly  our  common  prize : we  will  fling  dice  for  her.  The 
Venus*  throw,  as  it  ought  to  do,  shall  decide.” 

“ Let  me  go — let  me  go,  for  Heaven’s  sake,”  cried  Zoe^ 
struggling  with  Clodius. 

“ What  a charming  Greek  accent  she  has.  Come  into 
the  house,  my  little  Athenian  nightingale.” 

“ Oh ! what  will  become  of  me  ? If  you  have  mothers — 
if  you  have  sisters — ” 

“ Clodius  has  a sister,”  muttered  Ligarius,  “ or  he  is  much 
belied.” 

“ By  Heaven,  she  is  weeping,”  said  Clodius. 

“ If  she  were  not  evidently  a Greek,”  said  Coelius,  “ I 
should  take  her  for  a vestal  virgin.” 

“ And  if  she  were  a vestal  virgin,”  cried  Clodius  fiercely, 
“ it  should  not  deter  me.  This  way ; — no  struggling — no 
screaming.” 

“ Struggling ! screaming ! ” exclaimed  a gay  and  com- 
manding voice;  “You  are  making  very  ungentle  love, 
Clodius.” 

The  whole  party  started.  Caesar  had  mingled  with  them 
unperceived. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  thrilled  through  the  very  heart  of 
Zoe.  With  a convulsive  effort  she  burst  from  the  grasp  of 
her  insolent  admirer,  flung  herself  at  the  feet  of  Caesar,  and 
clasped  his  knees.  The  moon  shone  full  on  her  agitated 
and  imploring  face : her  lips  moved ; but  she  uttered  no 
sound.  He  gazed  at  her  for  an  instant— raised  her — clasped 
her  to  his  bosom.  “ Fear  nothing,  my  sweet  Zoe.”  Then, 
with  folded  arms,  and  a smile  of  placid  defiance,  he  placed 
himself  between  her  and  Clodius. 

Clodius  staggered  forward,  flushed  with  wine  and  rage, 
and  uttering  alternately  a curse  and  a hiccup. 

“ By  Pollux,  this  passes  a jest.  Caesar,  how  dare  you 
iiisult  me  thus  ? ” 

“A  jest!  I am  as  serious  as  a Jew  on  the  Sabbath. 
Insult  you ! For  such  a pair  of  eyes  I would  insult  the 
whole  consular  bench,  or  I should  be  as  insensible  as  King 
Psaramk’s  mummy  ” 


• Venus  was  the  Benian  temn  for  the  hijghest  thfoW  on  the  dice. 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A ROMAN  TALE, 


17 


‘‘  Good  Gods,  Ca3sar  ! ” said  Marcus  Ccclius,  interposing ; 
‘‘  you  cannot  think  it  worth  while  to  get  into  a brawl  for  a 
little  Greek  girl ! ” 

“ Why  not  ? The  Greek  girls  have  used  me  as  well  as 
those  of  Rome.  Besides,  the  whole  reputation  of  my  gab 
lantry  is  at  stake.  Give  up  such  a lovely  woman  to  that 
drunken  boy!  My  hereafter  would  be  gone  forever.  No 
more  perfumed  tablets,  full  of  vows  and  raptures.  No 
more  toying  with  fingers  at  the  Circus.  No  more  evening 
walks  along  the  Tiber.  No  more  hiding  in  chests,  or  junip- 
ing  from  windows.  I,  the  favored  suitor  of  half  the  white 
stoles  in  Rome,  could  never  again  aspire  above  a frced- 
woman.  You  a man  of  gallantry,  and  think  of  such  a 
thing ! For  shame,  my  dear  Coelius  ! Do  not  let  Clodia 
hear  of  it.” 

While  Ca3sar  spoke  he  had  been  engaged  in  keeping 
Clodius  at  arm’s  length.  The  rage  of  the  frantic  libertine 
increased  as  the  struggle  continued,  ‘‘  Stand  back,  as  you 
value  your  life,”  he  cried  ; “ I will  pass.” 

‘‘  Not  this  Avay,  sweet  Clodius.  I have  too  much  regard 
for  you  to  suffer  you  to  make  love  at  such  disadvantage. 
You  smell  too  much  of  Falernian  at  present.  Would  you 
stifle  your  mistress  ? By  Hercules,  you  are  fit  to  kiss  no- 
body now,  except  old  Piso,  when  he  is  tumbling  home  in  the 
morning  from  the  vintners.”  * 

Clodius  plunged  his  hand  into  his  bosom,  and  drew  a 
little  dagger,  the  faithful  companion  of  many  desperate  ad- 
ventures. 

“ Oh,  Gods  1 he  will  be  murdered  ! ” cried  Zoe. 

The  whole  throng  of  revellers  was  in  agitation.  The 
street  fluctuated  with  torches  and  lifted  hands.  It  was  but 
for  a moment.  Caesar  watched  with  a steady  eye  the  de- 
scending hand  of  Clodius,  arrested  the  blow,  seized  his  an- 
tagonist by  the  throat,  and  flung  him  against  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  portico  with  such  violence  that  he  rolled, 
stunned  and  senseless,  on  the  ground. 

“ He  is  killed,”  cried  several  voices. 

Fair  self-defence,  by  Hercules!”  said  Marcus  Coelius. 
“ Bear  witness,  you  all  saw  him  draw  his  dagger.” 

“ He  is  not  dead — ^he  breathes,”  said  Ligarius.  “ Carry 
him  into  the  house  ; he  is  dreadfully  bruised.” 

The  rest  6f  the  party  retired  with  Clodius^  Coelius 
turned  to  Ctesaf. 

^ * Cie  im  Fia, 


18  MAOAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

“By  all  the  Gods,  Caius!  you  have  won  your  lady 
fairly.  A splendid  victory!  You  deserve  triumph.” 

“ What  a madman  Clodius  has  become ! ” 

“ Intolerable.  But  come  and  sup  with  me  on  the  Nones. 
You  have  no  objection  to  meet  tlie  Consul?” 

“Cicero?  None  at  all.  We  need  not  talk  politics. 
Our  old  dispute  about  Plato  and  Epicurus  will  furnish  us 
with  plenty  of  conversation.  So  reckon  upon  me,  my  dear 
Marcus,  and  farewell.” 

CaBsar  and  Zoe  turned  away.  As  soon  as  they  were  be- 
yond hearing,  she  began  in  great  agitation  : — 

“ Caesar,  you  are  in  danger.  I know  all.  I overheard 
Catiline  and  Cethegus.  You  are  engaged  in  a project 
which  must  lead  to  certain  destruction.” 

“ My  beautiful  Zoe,  I live  only  for  glory  and  pleasure. 
For  these  I have  never  hesitated  to  hazard  an  existence 
which  they  alone  render  valuable  to  me.  In  the  present 
case,  I can  assure  you  that  our  scheme  presents  the  fairest 
hopes  of  success.” 

“ So  much  the  worse.  You  do  not  know — you  do  not 
understand  me.  I speak  not  of  open  peril,  but  of  secret 
treachery.  Catilifte  hates  you  ; — Cethegus  hates  you ; — 
your  destruction  is  resolved.  If  you  survive  the  contest, 
you  perish  in  the  first  hour  of  victory.  They  detest  you 
for  your  moderation  ; — they  are  eager  for  blood  and  plunder. 
I have  risked  my  life  to  bring  you  this  warning ; but  that  is 
of  little  moment.  Farewell ! — Be  happy.” 

Caesar  stopped  her.  “ Do  you  fly  from  my  thanks,  dear 
Zoe?” 

“ I wish  not  for  your  thanks,  but  for  your  safety  I 
desire  not  to  defraud  Valeria  or  Servilia  of  one  caress,  ex- 
torted from  gratitude  or  pity.  Be  my  feelings  what  they 
may,  I have  learnt  in  a fearful  school  to  endure  and  to  sup- 
press them.  I have  been  taught  to  abase  a proud  spirit  to 
the  claps  and  hisses  of  the  vulgar ; — to  smile  on  suitors  who 
united  the  insults  of  a despicable  pride  to  the  endearments 
of  a loathsome  fondness ; — to  affect  sprightliness  with  an 
aching  head,  and  eyes  from  which  tears  were  ready  to  gush ; 
— to  feign  love  with  curses  on  my  lips,  and  madness  in  my 
brain.  Who  feels  for  me  any  esteem, — any  tenderness  ? 
Who  will  shed  a tear  over  the  nameless  grave  which  will 
soon  shelter  from  cruelty  and  scorn  the  broken  heart  of  the 
poor  Athenian  girl  ? But  you,  who  alone  have  addressed 
her  in  her  degradation  with  a voice  of  kindness  and  respect, 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A ROMAN  TALE. 


19 


farewell.  Sometimes  think  of  me, — not  with  sorrow  ; — no; 
I could  bear  your  ingratitude,  but  not  your  distress.  Yet,  if 
it  will  not  i)ain  you  too  much,  in  distant  days,  when  your 
lofty  hopes  and  destinies  are  accomplished, — on  the  evening 
of  some  mighty  victory, — in  the  chariot  of  some  magnificent 
triumph, — think  on  one  who  loved  you  with  that  exceeding 
love  which  only  the  miserable  can  feel.  Think  that,  wher- 
ever her  exhausted  frame  may  have  sunk  beneath  the  sen- 
sibilities of  a tortured  spirit, — in  whatever  hovel  or  what- 
ever vault  she  may  liave  closed  her  eyes, — whatever  strange 
scenes  of  horror  and  pollution  may  have  surrounded  her  dy- 
ing bed,  your  shape  was  the  last  that  swam  before  her  sight — 
your  voice  the  last  sound  that  was  ringing  in  her  ears.  Yet 
turn  your  face  to  me,  Caesar.  Let  me  carry  away  one  last 
look  of  those  features,  and  then — ” lie  turned  round.  He 
looked  at  her.  He  hid  his  face  on  her  bosom,  and  burst  into 
tears.  With  sobs  long  and  loud,  and  convulsive  as  those  of 
a terrified  child,  he  poured  forth  on  her  bosom  the  tribute 
of  impetuous  and  uncontrollable  emotion.  He  raised  his 
head ; but  he  in  vain  struggled  to  restore  composure  to  the 
brow  which  had  confronted  the  frown  of  Sylla,  and  the  lips 
vrhich  had  rivalled  the  eloquence  of  Cicero.  He  several 
times  attempted  to  speak,  but  in  vain ; and  his  voice  still 
faltered  with  tenderness,  when,  after  a pause  of  several  min- 
utes, he  thus  addressed  her  : 

“ My  own  dear  Zoe,  your  love  has  been  bestowed  on  one 
who,  if  he  cannot  merit,  can  at  least  appreciate  and  adore 
you.  Beings  of  similar  loveliness,  and  similar  devotedness 
of  affection,  mingled,  in  all  my  boyish  dreams  of  greatness, 
with  visions  of  curule  chairs  and  ivory  cars,  marshalled  le- 
gions and  laurelled  fasces.  Such  I have  endeavored  to  find 
in  the  world  ; and,  in  their  stead,  I have  met  with  self- 
ishness, with  vanity,  with  frivolity,  with  falsehood.  The 
life  Avliich  you  have  preserved  is  a boon  less  valuable  thau 
the  affection — 

“ Oh  ! Caesar,”  interrupted  the  blushing  Zoe,  think  only 
on  your  own  security  at  present.  If  you  feel  as  you  speak, 
— ^but  you  are  only  mocking  me, — or  j^erhaps  your  compas- 
sion— ” 

“ By  Heaven  ! — ^by  every  oath  that  is  binding — ” 

“ Alas ! alas  ! Caesar,  were  not  all  the  same  oaths  sworn 
yesterday  to  V aleria  ? But  I will  trust  you,  at  least  so  far 
as  to  partake  your  present  dangers.  Flight  maybe  neces- 
sary : — form  your  plans.  Be  they  what  they  may,  there  is 


20 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


one  who,  in  exile,  in  poverty,  in  peril,  asks  only  to  wander, 
to  beg,  to  die  with  you.” 

“ My  Zoe,  I do  not  anticipate  any  such  necessity.  To 
renounce  the  conspiracy  without  renouncing  the  principles 
on  which  it  was  originally  undertaken — to  elude  the  venge- 
ance of  the  Senate  without  losing  the  confidence  of  the  people 
— is,  indeed,  an  arduous,  but  not  an  impossible,  task.  I owe 
It  to  myself  and  to  my  country  to  make  the  attempt.  There 
IS  still  ample  time  for  consideration.  At  present  I am  too 
ha])py  in  love  to  think  of  ambition  or  danger.” 

They  f ad  reached  the  door  of  a stately  palace.  Caesar 
struck  it  It  was  instantly  opened  by  a slave.  Zoe  found 
herself  in  a magnificent  hall,  surrounded  by  pillars  of  green 
marble,  between  which  were  ranged  the  statues  of  the  long 
line  of  Julian  nobles. 

“ Call  Endymion,”  said  Caesar. 

The  confidential  freed-man  made  his  appearance,  not 
without  a slight  smile,  which  his  patron’s  good-nature  em- 
boldened him  to  hazard,  at  perceiving  the  beautiful  Athenian. 

“ Arm  my  slaves,  Endymion  ; there  are  reasons  for  pre- 
caution. Let  them  relieve  each  other  on  guard  during  the 
night.  Zoe,  my  love,  my  preserver,  why  are  your  cheeks  so 

Sale  ? Let  me  kiss  some  bloom  into  them.  How  you  trem- 
le  ! Endymion,  a flask  of  Samian  and  some  fruit.  Bring 
them  to  my  apartments.  This  way,  my  sweet  Zoe.” 

* *#****#♦ 


ON  THE  ROYAL  SOCIETY  OF  LITERATURE. 

{Knight’s  Quarterly  Magazine,  June,  1823.) 

This  is  the  age  of  societies.  There  is  scarcely  one  Eng- 
lishman in  ten  who  has  not  belonged  to  some  association  for 
distributing  books,  or  for  prosecuting  them ; for  sending  in- 
valids to  the  hospital,  or  beggars  to  the  treadmill ; for  giving 
plate  to  the  rich  or  blankets  to  the  poor.  To  be  the  most 
absurd  institution  among  so  many  institutions  is  no  small 
distinction  ; it  seems,  however,  to  belong  indisputably  to  the 
Royal  Society  of  Literature.  At  the  first  establishment  of 
that  ridiculous  academy,  every  sensible  man  predicted  that, 
in  spite  of  regal  patronar;o  and  episcopal  management,  it 


ON  TlIEi  ROYAL  SOCIETY  OE  LITERATURE. 


21 


would  do  nothing,  or  do  liariu.  And  it  will  scarcely  bo  de- 
nied that  those  expectations  have  hitherto  been  fulfilled. 

I do  not  attack  the  founders  of  the  association.  Theii 
characters  are  respectable  ; their  motives,  I am  willing  to 
believe,  were  laudable.  But  I feel,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  every 
literary  man  to  feel,  a strong  jealousy  of  their  proceedings. 
Their  society  can  be  innocent  only  while  it  continues  to  be 
despicable.  Should  they  ever  possess  the  power  to  encour- 
age merit,  they  must  also  possess  the  power  to  depress  it. 
Which  power  will  be  more  frequently  exercised,  let  every 
one  who  lias  studied  literary  history,  let  every  one  who  has 
studied  human  nature,  declare. 

Envy  and  faction  insinuate  themselves  into  all  com- 
munities. They  often  disturb  the  peace,  and  pervert  the 
decisions,  of  benevolent  and  scientific  associations.  But  it 
is  in  literary  academies  that  they  exert  the  most  extensive 
and  pernicious  influence.  In  the  first  place,  the  princi- 
ples of  literary  criticism,  though  equally  fixed  with  those 
on  which  the  chemist  and  the  surgeon  proceed,  are  by  no 
means  equally  recognized.  Men  are  rarely  able  to  assign 
a reason  for  their  approbation  or  dislike  on  questions  of 
taste  ; and  therefore  they  willingly  submit  to  any  guide 
who  boldly  asserts  his  claim  to  superior  discernment.  It  is 
more  difficult  to  ascertain  and  establish  the  merits  of  a poem 
than  the  powers  of  a machine  or  the  benefits  of  a new  remedy. 
Hence  it  is  in  literature,  that  quackery  is  most  easily  puffed, 
and  excellence  most  easily  decried. 

In  some  degree  this  argument  applies  to  academies  of 
the  fine  arts ; and  it  is  fully  confirmed  by  all  that  I have 
ever  heard  of  that  institution  which  annually  disfigures  the 
walls  of  Somerset-House  with  an  acre  of  spoiled  canvass. 
But  a literary  tribunal  is  incomparably  more  dangerous. 
Other  societies,  at  least,  have  no  tendency  to  call  forth  any 
opinions  on  those  subjects  which  most  agitate  and  inflame 
the  minds  of  men.  The  skeptic  and  the  zealot,  the  revolu- 
tionist and  the  placeman,  meet  on  common  ground  in  a gal- 
lery of  paintings  or  a laboratory  of  science.  They  can  praise 
or  censure  without  reference  to  the  differences  which  exist 
between  them.  In  a literary  body  this  can  never  be  the 
case.  Literature  is,  and  always  must  be,  inseparably  blended 
with  politics  and  theology;  it  is  the  great  engine  which 
moves  the  feelings  of  a people  on  the  most  momentous 
questions.  It  is,  therefore,  impossible  that  any  society  can 
be  formed  so  impartial  as  to  consider  the  literary  character 


U2  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

of  an  individual  abstracted  from  the  opinions  whicli  his 
writings  inculcate.  It  is  not  to  be  hoped,  perhaps  it  is  not 
to  be  wished,  that  the  feelings  of  the  man  should  be  so  com- 
pletely forgotten  in  tlie  duties  of  the  academician.  The 
consequences  are  evident.  The  honors  and  censures  of 
this  Star-chamber  of  the  Muses  will  be  awarded  according  to 
the  prejudices  of  the  particular  sect  or  faction  which  may  at 
the  time  predominate.  Whigs  would  canvass  against  a 
Southey,  Tories  against  a Byron.  Those  who  might  at  first 
protest  against  such  conduct  as  unjust  would  soon  adopt  it  on 
the  plea  of  retaliation ; and  the  general  good  of  literature, 
for  which  the  society  was  professedly  instituted,  would  be 
forgotten  in  the  stronger  claims  of  political  and  religious 
partiality. 

Yet  even  this  is  not  the  worst.  Should  the  institution 
ever  acquire  any  influence,  it  will  afford  most  pernicious 
facilities  to  every  malignant  coward  wdio  may  desire  to 
blast  a reputation  which  he  envies.  It  will  furnish  a secure 
ambuscade,  behind  which  the  Maroons  of  literature  may  take 
a certain  and  deadly  aim.  The  editorial  we  has  often  been 
fatal  to  rising  genius  ; thoiigh  all  the  world  knows  it  is  only 
a form  of  speech,  very  often  employed  by  a single  needy 
blockhead.  The  academic  we  would  have  a far  greater  and 
more  ruinous  influence.  Numbers,  while  they  increased 
the  effect,  would  diminish  the  shame,  of  injustice.  The  ad- 
vantages of  an  open  and  those  of  an  anonymous  attack 
would  be  combined ; and  the  authority  of  avowal  would  be 
united  to  the  security  of  concealment.  The  serpents  in 
Virgil,  after  they  had  destroyed  Laocoon,  found  an  asylum 
from  the  vengeance  of  the  enraged  people  behind  the  shield 
of  the  statue  of  Minerva.  And,  in  the  same  manner,  every 
thing  that  is  grovelling  and  venomous,  every  thing  that  can 
hiss,  and  every  thing  that  can  sting,  would  take  sanctuary 
in  the  recesses  of  this  new  temple  of  wisdom. 

The  French  academy  was,  of  all  such  associations,  the 
most  widely  and  the  most  justly  celebrated.  It  was  founded 
by  the  greatest  of  ministers  ; it  was  patronized  by  successive 
kings ; it  numbered  in  its  lists  most  of  the  eminent  French 
writers.  Yet,  what  benefit  has  literature  derived  from  its 
labors?  What  is  its  history  but  an  uninterrupted  record 
of  servile  compliances — of  paltry  artifices — of  deadly  quar- 
rels— of  perfidious  friendships  ? Whether  governed  by  the 
Court,  by  the  Sorbonne,  or  by  the  Philosophers,  it  was 
always  equally  powerful  for  evil,  and  equally  impotent  for 


ON  THE  ROYAL  SOCIETY  OF  LITERATURE. 


23 


good.  I might  speak  of  the  attacks  by  which  it  attempted 
to  depress  the  rising  fame  of  Corneille ; I might  speak  of 
the  reluctance  with  which  it  gave  its  tardy  confirmation  to 
the  applauses  which  the  whole  civilized  world  had  bestowed 
on  tlie  genius  of  Voltaire.  I might  prove  by  overwhelming 
evidence  that,  to  the  latest  period  of  its  existence,  even  under 
the  superintendence  of  the  all-accomplished  D’Alembert,  it 
continued  to  be  a scene  of  the  fiercest  animosities  and  the 
basest  intrigues.  I might  cite  Piron’s  epigrams,  and  Mar- 
montel’s  memoirs,  and  Montesquieu’s  letters.  But  I hasten 
on  to  another  topic. 

One  of  the  modes  by  which  our  Society  proposes  to 
encourage  merit  is  the  distribution  of  prizes.  The  mur.  ifi- 
cence  of  the  king  has  enabled  it  to  offer  an  annual  premium 
of  a hundred  guineas  for  the  best  essay  in  prose,  and  an- 
other of  fifty  guineas  for  the  best  poem,  which  may  be 
transmitted  to  it.  This  is  very  laughable.  In  the  first  place 
the  judges  may  err.  Those  imperfections  of  human  in- 
tellect to  which,  as  the  articles  of  the  church  tell  us,  even 
general  councils  are  subject,  may  possibly  be  found  even  in 
the  Royal  Society  of  Literature.  The  French  Academy,  as  I 
have  already  said,  was  the  most  illustrious  assembly  of  the 
kind,  and  numbered  among  its  associates  men  much  more 
distinguished  than  ever  will  assemble  at  Mr.  Hatchard’s  to 
rummage  the  box  of  the  English  Society.  Yet  this  famous 
body  gave  a poetical  prize,  for  which  Voltaire  was  a can- 
didate, to  a fellow  who  wrote  some  verses  about  the  frozen 
and  the  burning  pole. 

Yet,  granting  that  the  prizes  were  always  awarded  to 
the  best  composition,  that  composition,  I say  without  hesita- 
tion, will  always  be  bad.  A prize  jioem  is  like  a prize  sheep. 
The  object  of  the  competitor  for  the  agricultural  premium 
is  to  produce  an  animal  fit,  not  to  be  eaten,  but  to  be  weighed. 
Accordingly,  he  pampers  his  victim  into  morbid  ^nd  unnatu- 
ral fatness ; and,  when  it  is  in  such  a state  that  it  would  be 
sent  away  in  disgust  from,  any  table,  he  offers  it  to  the 
judges.  The  object  of  the  poetical  candidate,  in  like  manner, 
is  to  produce,  not  a good  poem,  but  a poem  of  that  exact 
degree  of  frigidity  or  bombast  which  may  appear  to  his  cen- 
sors to  be  correct  or  sublime.  Compositions  thus  constructed 
will  always  be  worthless.  The  few  excellences  Avhich  they 
may  contain  will  have  an  exotic  aspect  and  flavor.  In  gen- 
eral, prize  sheep  are  good  for  nothing  but  to  make  tallow  can 
dies,  and  prize  poems  are  good  for  nothing  but  to  light  them. 


24 


Macaulay’s  mtscellanp:ous  writings. 


The  first  subject  ])roposc(l  by  the  Society  to  the  poets 
of  England  was  Dartmoor.  I thought  that  they  intended  a 
covert  sarcasm  at  tlieir  own  projects.  Their  institution  was 
a literary  Dartmoor  scheme ; — a plan  for  forcing  into  cul- 
tivation the  waste  lands  of  intellect, — for  raising  poetical 
produce,  by  means  of  bounties,  from  soil  too  meagre  to  have 
yielded  any  returns  in  the  natural  course  of  things.  The 
plan  for  the  cultivation  of  Dartmoor  has,  I hear,  been  aban- 
doned. I hope  that  this  may  be  an  omen  of  the  fate  of  the 
Society. 

In  truth,  this  seems  by  no  means  improbable.  They  have 
been  offering  for  several  years  the  rewards  which  the  king 
placed  at  their  disposal,  and  have  not,  as  far  as  I can  learn, 
been  able  to  find  in  their  box  one  composition  which  they 
have  deemed  worthy  of  publication.  At  least  no  publica- 
tion has  taken  place.  The  associates  may  perhaps  be  aston- 
ished at  this.  But  I will  attempt  to  explain  it,  after  the 
manner  of  ancient  times,  by  means  of  an  apologue. 

About  four  hundred  years  after  the  deluge.  King  Gomer 
Chephoraod  reigned  in  Babylon.  He  united  all  the  char- 
acteristics of  an  excellent  sovereign.  He  made  good  laws, 
won  great  battles,  and  white-washed  long  streets.  He  was, 
in  consequence,  idolized  by  his  people,  and  panegyrized  by 
many  poets  and  orators.  A book  was  then  a serious  under- 
taking. Neither  paper  nor  ary  similar  material  had  been 
invented.  Authors  were,  therefore,  under  the  necessity  of 
inscribing  their  compositions  on  massive  bricks.  Some  of 
these  Babylonian  records  are  still  preserved  in  European 
museums  ; but  the  language  in  which  they  are  written  has 
never  been  deciphered.  Gomer  Chephoraod  was  so  popular 
that  the  clay  of  all  the  plains  around  the  Euphrates  could 
scarcely  furnish  brick-kilns  enough  for  his  eulogists.  It  is 
recorded  in  particular  that  Pharonezzar,  the  Assyrian  Pin- 
dar, published  a bridge  and  four  walls  in  his  praise. 

One  day  the  king  was  going  in  state  from  his  palace  to 
the  temple  of  Belus.  During  this  procession  it  was  lawful 
for  any  Babylonian  to  offer  any  petition  or  suggestion  to 
his  sovereign.  As  the  chariot  passed  before  a vintner’s 
shop,  a large  company,  apparently  half-drunk,  sallied  forth 
into  the  street ; and  one  of  them  thus  addressed  the  king : 

“ Gomer  Chephoraod,  live  forever  ! It  appears  to  thy 
servants  that  of  ail  the  productions  of  the  earth  good  wine 
is  the  best,  and  bad  wine  is  the  worst.  Good  wine  makes  ^ 
the  heart  cheerful,  the  eyes  bright,  the  speech  ready*  Bad 


ON  THE  ROYAL  SOCIETY  OP  LITERATURE. 


25 


wino  confuses  tlie  head,  disorders  the  stomach,  makes  us 
quarrelsome  at  night,  and  sick  the  next  morning.  Now, 
therefore,  let  my  lord  the  king  take  order  that  thy  servants 
may  drink  good  wdne.” 

And  how  is  this  to  be  done  ? ” said  the  good-natured 
prince. 

“ Oh,  king,”  said  his  monitor,  ‘‘  this  is  most  easy.  Let 
the  king  make  a decree,  and  seal  it  with  his  royal  signet ; 
and  let  it  be  proclaimed  that  the  king  will  give  ten  she- 
assf  s,  and  ten  slaves,  and  ten  changes  of  raiment,  every  year, 
unto  the  man  who  shall  make  ten  measures  of  the  best  wine. 
And  whosoever  wishes  for  the  she-asses,  and  the  slaves,  and 
the  raiment,  let  him  send  the  ten  measures  of  wine  to  thy 
servants,  and  we  will  drink  thereof  and  judge.  So  shall 
there  be  much  good  wine  in  Assyria.” 

The  project  pleased  Gomer  Chephoraod.  “Be  it  so,” 
said  he.  The  people  shouted.  The  petitioners  prostrated 
themselves  in  gratitude.  The  same  night  heralds  were  de- 
spatched to  bear  the  intelligence  to  the  remotest  districts  of 
Assyria. 

After  a due  interval  the  wines  began  to  come  in ; and 
the  examiners  assembled  to  adjudge  the  prize.  The  first 
vessel  was  unsealed.  Its  odor  was  such  that  the  judges, 
without  tasting  it,  pronounced  unanimous  condemnation. 
The  next  was  opened  ; it  had  a villainous  taste  of  clay.  The 
third  was  sour  and  vapid.  They  proceeded  from  one  cask 
of  execrable  liquor  to  another,  till  at  length,  in  absolute 
nausea,  they  gave  up  the  investigation. 

The  next  morning  they  all  assembled  at  the  gate  of  the 
king,  Avith  pale  faces  and  aching  heads.  They  owneA  that 
they  could  not  recommend  any  competitor  as  worthy  3f  the 
reward.  They  swore  that  the  wine  was  little  better  than 
poison,  and  entreated  permission  to  resign  the  office  of  de- 
ciding between  such  detestable  potions. 

“ In  the  name  of  Belus,  how  can  this  have  happened  ? ” 
said  the  king. 

Merolchazzar,  the  high-priest,  muttered  something  about 
the  anger  of  the  Gods  at  the  toleration  shown  to  a sect  of 
impious  heretics  who  ate  pigeons  broiled,  “ whereas,”  said 
he,  “ our  religion  commands  us  to  eat  them  roasted.  Now, 
therefore,  oh  king,”  continued  this  respectable  divine, 
“ give  command  to  thy  men  of  war,  and  let  them  smite  the 
disobedient  people  with  the  sword,  them,  and  their  wives, 
and  their  children,  and  let  their  houses,  and  their  flocks, 


26 


MACAULAY  S MISl  ELLANEOtTS  WRITINGS. 


and  their  licrds,  he  given  to  tliy  servants  the  priests.  Then 
shall  the  land  yield  its  increase,  and  the  fruits  of  the  earth 
shall  he  no  more  Masted  hy  the  vengeance  of  heaven.” 

‘‘Nay,”  said  tlie  king,  “the  ground  lies  under  no  gen- 
eral curse  fi’om  heaven.  The  season  has  been  singularly 
good.  The  wine  which  thou  didst  thyself  drink  at  the  ban- 
quet a few  nights  ago,  oh  venerable  Merolchazzar,  was  of 
this  year’s  vintage.  Dost  thou  not  remember  how  thou 
didst  praise  it  ? It  was  the  same  night  that  thou  wast 
inspired  by  Belus,  and  didst  reel  to  and  fro,  and  discourse 
sacred  mysteries.  These  things  are  too  hard  for  me.  I com- 
prehend them  not.  The  only  wine  which  is  bad  is  that 
which  is  sent,  to  my  judges.  Who  can  expound  this  to  us  ? ” 

The  king  scratched  his  head.  Upon  which  all  the  cour- 
tiers scratched  their  heads. 

He  then  ordered  proclamation  to  be  made,  that  a pur- 
ple robe  and  a golden  chain  should  be  given  to  the  man 
who  could  solve  this  difficulty. 

An  old  philosopher,  who  had  been  observed  to  smile  rather 
disdainfully  when  the  prize  had  first  been  instituted,  came 
forward  and  spoke  thus : — 

“ Gomer  Chephoraod,  live  forever  ! Marvel  not  at  that 
which  has  happened.  It  was  no  miracle,  but  a natural 
event.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ? It  is  true  that  much 
good  wine  has  been  made  this  year.  But  who  would  send 
it  in  for  thy  rewards  ? Thou  knowest  Ascobaruch  who 
hath  the  great  vineyards  in  the  north,  and  Cohahiroth  who 
sendeth  wine  every  year  from  the  south  over  the  Persian 
Gulf.  Their  wines  are  so  delicious  that  ten  measures  there- 
of are  sold  for  an  hundred  talents  of  silver.  Thinkest  thou 
that  tliey  will  exchange  them  for  thy  slaves  and  thine  asses? 
What  would  thy  prize  profit  any  who  have  vineyards  in 
rich  soils  ? ” 

“ Who,  then,”  said  one  of  the  judges,  “ are  the  wretches 
who  sent  us  this  poison  ? ” 

“ Blame  them  not,”  said  the  sage,  “ seeing  that  you  have 
been  the  authors  of  the  evil.  They  are  men  whose  lands 
are  poor,  and  have  never  yielded  them  any  returns  equal  to 
the  prizes  which  the  king  pro])osed.  Wherefore,  knowing 
that  the  lords  of  the  fruitful  vineyards  would  not  enter  into 
competition  with  them,  they  planted  vines,  some  on  rocks, 
and  some  in  light  sandy  soil,  and  some  in  deep  clay.  Hence 
their  wines  are  bad.  For  no  culture  or  reward  will  make 
barren  land  bear  good  j^ine>s.  Know  therefore,  assuredly. 


27 


SCENES  FROM  “ ATHENIAN  REVELS.” 

that  your  prized  have  increased  the  quantity  of  bad  but  not 
of  good  wine.” 

There  was  a long  silence.  At  length  the  king  spoke. 
‘‘  Give  him  the  purple  robe  and  the  chain  of  gold.  Throw 
the  wines  into  the  Euphrates  ; and  proclaim  that  the  Royal 
Society  of  Wines  is  dissolved.” 


SCENES  FROM  ‘‘ATHENIAN  REVELS.” 

(Knight* s Quarterly  Magazim^  January y 1824.) 

A DRAMA. 

I. 

Scene- — A Street  in  Athene. 

Enter  Callidemus  and  Speusippub. 
callidemus. 

So,  you  young  reprobate  ! You  must  be  a man  of  wit, 
fonooth,  and  a man  of  quality  ! You  must  spend  as  if  you 
were  as  rich  as  Nicias,  and  prate  as  if  you  were  as  wise 
as  Pericles ! You  must  dangle  after  sophists  and  pretty 
women ! And  I must  pay  for  all ! I must  sup  on  thyme 
and  onions,  while  you  are  swallowing  thrushes  and  hares ! 
I must  drink  water,  that  you  may  play  the  cottabus  * with 
Chian  wine ! I must  wander  about  as  ragged  as  Pauson,t 
that  you  may  be  as  fine  as  Alcibiades ! I must  lie  on  bare 
boards,  with  a stone  $ for  my  pillow,  and  a rotten  mat  for 
my  coverlid,  by  the  light  of  a wretched  winking  lamp,  while 
you  are  marching  in  state,  with  as  many  torches  as  one 
sees  at  the  feast  of  Ceres,  to  thunder  with  your  hatchet  § 
at  the  doors  of  half  the  Ionian  ladies  in  Peira3us.  || 

♦ This  game  consisted  in  projecting  wine  out  of  cups  ; it  was  a diversion  ex- 
tremely fashionable  at  Athenian  entertainments. 

t Pauson  was  an  Athenian  painter,  whose  name  was  synonjrmous  with  beggary. 
See  Aristophanes  ; Plutus,  602.  From  his  poverty,  I am  inclined  to  suppose  that 
ho  painted  historical  pictures. 

i See  Aristophanes  ; Plutus,  642. 

§ See  Theocritus  ; Idyll  ii.  128. 

I)  This  was  the  most  disreputable  part  of  Athens.  See  Aristophanes  ; Pax,  166 


28 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings^. 


SPEUSIPPUS, 

Why,  thou  unreasonable  old  man ! Thou  most  shame- 
less of  fathers ! — 

callidemus. 

Ungrateful  wretch  ! dare  you  talk  so  ? Are  you  not 
afraid  of  the  thunders  of  Jupiter? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Jupiter  thunder ! nonsense ! Anaxagoras  says,  that 
thunder  is  only  an  explosion  produced  by — 


CALLIDEMUS. 

He  does  ! Would  that  it  had  fallen  on  his  head  for  his 


pains 


SPEUSIPPUS. 


Nay : talk  rationally. 

CALLIDEMUS. 


Rationally!  You  audacious  young  sophist!  I will  talk 
rationally.  Do  you  know  that  I am  your  father?  What 
quibble  can  you  make  upon  that  ? 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

Do  I know  that  you  are  my  father  ? Let  us  take  the 
question  to  pieces,  as  Melesigenes  would  say.  First,  then, 
we  must  inquire  what  is  knowledge?  Secondly,  what  is  a 
father?  Now,  knowledge,  as  Socrates  said  the  other  day 
to  Theaetetus,* 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Socrates!  what!  the  ragged  flat-nosed  old  dotard,  who 
walks  about  all  day  barefoot,  and  filches  cloaks,  and  dissects 
gnats,  and  shoes  t fleas  with  wax  ? 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

All  fiction ! All  trumped  up  by  Aristophanes ! 

CALLIDEMUS. 

By  Pallas,  if  he  is  in  the  habit  of  putting  shoes  on  his 

• See  Plato*#  Theaetetus.  t See  Aristopliaues  ; Nubee,  150. 


^ SCElsTES  FROM  ATHEKIAFT  REVELS^’  29 

fleas,  he  is  kinder  to  them  than  to  himself.  But  listen  to  me, 
boy  ; if  you  go  on  this  way,  you  will  be  ruined.  There 
is  an  argument  for  you.  Go  to  your  Socrates,  and  your 
Melesigenes,  and  tell  them  to  refute  that.  Suined  ! Do 
you  hear  ? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Kuined  ! 

CALLIDENUS. 

Ay,  by  Jupiter  ! Is  such  a show  as  you  make  to  be  sup- 
ported on  nothing  ? During  all  the  last  war,  I made  not 
an  obol  from  my  farm ; the  Peloponnesian  locusts  came  al- 
most as  regularly  as  the  Pleiades  ; — corn  burnt ; — olives 
stripped  ; — fruit  trees  cut  down  ; — wells  stopped  up  ; — and, 
just  when  peace  came,  and  I hoped  that  all  would  turn  out 
well,  you  must  begin  to  spend  as  if  you  had  all  the  mines 
of  Thasus  at  command. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Now,  by  Neptune,  wno  delights  in  horses— 

CALLIDEMUS. 

If  Neptune  delights  in  horses,  he  does  not  resemble  me. 
You  must  ride  at  the  Panathenaea  on  a horse  fit  for  the  great 
king : four  acres  of  my  best  vines  went  for  that  folly.  You 
must  retrench,  or  you  will  have  nothing  to  eat.  Does  not 
Anaxagoras  mention,  among  his  other  discoveries,  that  when 
a man  has  nothing  to  eat  he  dies  ? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

You  are  deceived.  My  friends — 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Oh,  yes ! your  friends  will  notice  you,  doubtless,  when 
you  are  squeezing  through  the  crowd,  on  a winter’s  day,  to 
warm  yourself  at  the  fire  of  the  baths  ; — or  when  you  are 
fighting  with  beggars  and  beggars’  dogs  for  the  scraps  of  a 
sacrifice ; — or  when  you  are  glad  to  earn  three  wretched 
obols  * by  listening  all  day  to  lying  speeches  and  crying 
children. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

There  are  other «jneans  of  support. 

• The  stipend  of  an  Athenian  Juryman. 


30 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


CALLIDEMUS. 

What ! I suppose  you  will  wander  from  house  to  house, 
like  that  wretched  buffoon  Philippus,*  and  beg  everybody 
who  has  asked  a supper-party  to  be  so  kind  as  to  feed  you 
amd  laugh  at  you  ; or  you  will  turn  sycophant;  you  will  get 
a bunch  of  grapes,  or  a pair  of  shoes,  now  and  then,  by 
frightening  some  rich  coward  with  a mock  prosecution. 
Well ! that  is  a task  for  which  your  studies  under  the  sophists 
may  have  fitted  you. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

You  are  wide  of  the  mark. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Then  what,  in  the  name  of  Juno,  is  your  scheme?  Do 
you  intend  to  join  Orestes, f and  rob  on  the  highway?  Take 
care  ; beware  of  the  eleven  ; J beware  of  the  hemlock.  It 
may  be  very  pleasant  to  live  at  other  people’s  expense  ; but 
not  very  pleasant,  I should  think,  to  hear  the  pestle  give  its 
last  bang  against  the  mortar,  when  the  cold  dose  is  ready. 
Pah  !— 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Hemlock ! Orestes ! folly  ! — I aim  at  nobler  objects. 
What  say  you  to  politics, — the  general  assembly  ? 

CALLIDEMUS. 

You  an  orator  ! — oh  no!  no ! Cleon  was  worth  twenty 
such  fools  as  you.  You  have  succeeded,  I grant,  to  his 
impudence,  for  which,  if  there  be  justice  in  Tartarus,  he  is 
now  soaking  up  to  the  eyes  in  his  own  tan-pickle.  But  the 
Paphlagonian  had  parts. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

And  you  mean  to  imply — 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Not  I.  You  are  a Pericles  in  embryo,  doubtless.  Well : 
and  Avhen  are  you  to  make  your  first  speech?  Oh,  Pallas  I 

♦ Xenophon  ; Convivium. 

t A celebrated  highwayman  of  Attica.  See  Aristophanes ; Aves,  711 ; and  in 
several  other  passages. 

X The  police  officers  of  Athens. 


31 


SCENES  FROM  ‘‘  ATHENIAN  REVELS.” 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

I thought  of  speaking,  the  other  day,  on  the  Sicilian  ex- 
pedition ; but  Nicias  * got  up  before  me. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Nicias,  poor  honest  man,  might  just  as  well  have  sate 
Btill ; his  speaking  did  but  little  good.  The  loss  of  your 
oration  is,  doubtless,  an  irreparable  public  calamity. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Why,  not  so ; I intend  to  introduce  it  at  the  next  assem- 
bly ; it  will  suit  any  subject. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

That  is  to  say,  it  will  suit  none.  But  pray,  if  it  be  not 
too  presumptuous  a request,  indulge  me  with  a specimen. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Well  ; suppose  the  agora  crowded; — an  important  sub- 
ject under  discussion  ; — an  ambassador  from  Argos,  or  from 
the  great  king ; — the  tributes  from  the  islands  ; — an  impeach- 
ment ; — in  short,  any  thing  you  please.  The  crier  makes 
proclamation. — “ Any  citizen  above  fifty  years  old  may 
speak — any  citizen  not  disqualified  may  speak.”  Then  I 
rise  : — a great  murmur  of  curiosity  while  I am  mounting 
the  stand. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Of  curiosity  ! yes,  and  of  something  else  too.  You  will 
infallibly  be  dragged  down  by  main  force,  like  poor  Glaucon  f 
last  year. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Never  fear.  I shall  begin  in  this  style : 

“ When  I consider,  Aihenians,  the  importance  of  our 
city ; — Avhen  I consider  the  extent  of  its  power,  the  wisdom 
of  its  laws,  the  elegance  of  its  decorations  ; — when  I consider 
by  what  names  and  by  what  exploits  its  annals  are  adorned ; 

■ — when  I think  on  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton,  on  Themis- 
tocles  and  Miltiades,  on  Cimon  and  Pericles; — when  I con- 
template our  pre-eminence  in  arts  and  letters ; — when  I ob- 


• See  Thucydides,  vi.  8, 


t See  Xenophon  ; Memorabilia,  ill. 


S2 


MACAtTLAY’^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


fierve  so  many  flourisliing  states  and  islands  compelled  to  own 
the  dominion,  and  purchase  the  protection,  of  the  City  of  the 
Violet  Crown  * — ” 

CALLIDEMUS. 

I shall  choke  with  rage.  Oh,  all  ye  gods  and  goddesses, 
what  sacrilege,  what  perjury  have  I ever  committed  that  I 
should  be  singled  out  from  among  all  the  citizens  of  Athens 
to  be  the  father  of  this  fool  ? 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

What  now  ? By  Bacchus,  old  man,  I would  not  advise 
you  to  give  way  to  such  fits  of  passion  in  the  streets.  If 
Aristophanes  were  to  see  you,  you  would  infallibly  be  in  a 
comedy  next  spring. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

You  have  more  reason  ^o  fear  Aristophanes  than  any  fool 
living.  Oh,  that  he  could  but  hear  you  trying  to  imitate  the 
slang  of  Straton  t and  the  lisp  of  Alcibiades  ! t You  would 
be  an  inexhaustible  subject.  You  would  console  him  for  the 
loss  of  Cleon. 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

No,  no.  I may  perhaps  figure  at  the  dramatic  represent 
tations  before  long ; but  in  a very  different  way. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

What  say  you  to  a tragedy  ? 


CALLIDEMUS. 

A tragedy  of  yours  ? 


Even  so. 


SPEUSIPPUS. 


CALLIDEMUS. 

Oh,  Hercules ! Oh,  Bacchus ! This  is  too  much.  Here 

• A favorite  epithet  of  Athens.  See  Aristophanes  ; Acharn.  637. 
t See  Aristophanes;  Equites,  1375.  t See  Aristophanes;  VespSB, 44. 


SCENES  FROM  “ ATHENIAN  REVELS.” 


33 


is  an  universal  genius ; sophist, — orator, — poet.  To  what  a 
three-headed  monster  have  I given  birth  ! a perfect  Cerberus 
of  intellect ! And  pray  what  may  your  piece  be  about? 
Or  will  your  tragedy,  like  your  speech,  serve  equally  for 
any  subject? 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

I thought  of  several  plots  ; — CEdipus, — Eteocles  and 
Polynices, — the  war  of  Troy,  the  murder  of  Agamemnon. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

And  what  have  you  chosen  ? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

You  know  there  is  a law  which  permits  any  modern 
poet  to  retouch  a play  of  -^schylus,  and  bring  it  forward  as 
his  own  composition.  And,  as  there  is  an  absurd  prejudice, 
among  the  vulgar,  in  favor  of  his  extravagant  pieces,  I 
have  selected  one  of  them,  and  altered  it. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Which  of  them  ? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Oh ! that  mass  of  barbarous  absurdities,  the  Prome- 
theus. But  I have  framed  it  anew  upon  the  model  of  Euri- 
pides. By  Bacchus,  1 shall  make  Sophocles  and  Agathon 
look  about  them.  You  would  not  know  the  play  again. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

By  Jupiter,  I believe  not. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

I have  omitted  the  whole  of  the  absurd  dialogue  between 
V^wlcan  and  Strength,  at  the  beginning. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

That  may  be,  on  the  whole,  an  improvement.  The  play 
will  then  open  with  that  grand  soliloquy  of  Prometheus, 
when  he  is  chained  to  the  rock. 

VoL.  I.— 3 


S4 


MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


**  Oil  ! 3^e  eternal  lieavens  ! Ye  rushing  winds  ! 

Ye  fountains  of  great  streams  ! Ye  ocean  waves, 

That  in  ten  thousand  siiarkling  dimples  wreathe 
Your  azure  smiles  ! All-generating  earth  ! 

All-seeing  sun  I On  yon,  on  you,  I call.”  ♦ 

Well,  I allow  that  will  be  striking ; I did  not  think  you 
capable  of  that  idea.  Why  do  you  laugh  ? 

srEusippus. 

Do  you  seriously  suppose  that  one  who  has  studied  the 
playc  of  that  great  man,  Euripides,  would  ever  begin  a 
tragedy  in  such  a ranting  style  ? 

CALLIDEMUS. 

What,  does  not  your  play  open  with  the  speech  of 
Prometheus  ? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

No  doubt. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Then  what,  in  the  name  of  Bacchus,  do  you  make  him 
Bay? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

You  shall  hear ; and,  if  it  be  not  in  the  very  style  of 
Euripides,  call  me  a fool. 

/ 

CALLIDEMUS. 

That  IS  a liberty  which  I shall  venture  to  take,  whether 
it  be  or  no.  But  go  on. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Prometheus  begins  thus : 

“ Coelus  begat  Saturn  and  Briareus, 

Cottus  and  Creius  and  lapetus, 

Gyges  and  Hyperion,  Phoebe,  Tethys, 

Thea  and  Rhea  and  Mnemosyne. 

Then  Saturn  wedded  Rhea,  and  begat 
Pluto  and  Neptune,  Jupiter  and  Juno.** 


CALLIDEMUS. 

Very  beautiful,  and  very  natural ; and,  as  you  say,  very 
like  Euripides. 


See  ^schylus  ; Prometheus.  88. 


35 


SCENES  FROM  “ATHENIAN  REVELS.” 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Ton  are  sneering.  Really,  father,  you  do  not  under- 
stand these  things.  You  had  not  those  advantages  in  your 
youth — 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Which  I have  been  fool  enough  to  let  you  have.  No  ; 
in  my  early  days,  lying  had  not  been  dignified  into  a science, 
nor  politics  degraded  into  a trade.  I wrestled,  and  read 
Homer’s  battles,  instead  of  dressing  my  hair  and  reciting 
lectures  in  verse  out  of  Euripides.  But  I have  some  notion 
of  what  a play  should  be  ; I have  seen  Phrynichus,  and  lived 
with  -^schylus.  I saw  the  representation  of  the  Persians. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

A wretched  play ; it  may  amuse  the  fools  who  row  the 
triremes ; but  it  is  utterly  unworthy  to  be  read  by  any  man 
of  taste. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

If  you  had  seen  it  acted  ; — the  whole  theatre  frantic  with 
joy,  stamping,  shouting,  laughing,  crying.  There  was  CynaB- 
geirus,  the  brother  of  ^schylus,  who  lost  both  his  arms  at 
Marathon,  beating  the  stumps  against  his  sides  with  rapture. 
When  the  crowd  remarked  him — But  where  are  you  going  ? 

V 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

To  sup  with  Alcibiades  ; he  sails  with  the  expedition  for 
Sicily  in  a few  days  ; this  is  his  farewell  entertainment. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

So  much  the  better ; I should  say,  so  much  the  worse. 
That  cursed  Sicilian  expedition ! And  you  were  one  of  the 
young  fools  * who  stood  clapping  and  shouting  while  lie 
was  gulling  the  rabble,  and  who  drowned  poor  Nicias’s 
voice  with  the  uproar.  Look  to  it ; a day  of  reckoning  will 
come.  As  to  Alcibiades  himself— 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

What  can  you  say  against  him  ? His  enemies  themselves 
acknowledge  his  merit. 

• See  Thucydides,  vi.  13. 


86 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


CALLIDEMUS. 

They  acknowledge  that  he  is  clever,  and  handsome,  and 
that  he  was  crowned  at  the  Olympic  games.  And  what 
other  merits  do  his  friends  claim  for  him  ? A precious 
assemWy  you  will  meet  at  his  house,  no  doubt. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

The  first  men  in  Athens,  probably. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

Whom  do  you  mean  by  the  first  men  in  Athens? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Callicles.* 


CALLIDEMUS. 

A sacrilegious,  impious,  unfeeling  ruffian  I 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Hippomachus. 

CALLIDEMUS. 

A fool,  who  can  talk  of  nothing  but  his  travels  through 
Persia  ^and  Egypt.  Go,  go.  The  gods  forbid  that  I should 
detain  you  from  such  choice  society. 

\^Exeunt  severally. 

II. 

Scene — A Hall  in  the  House  of  Alcibiades. 

Alcibiades,  Speusippus,  Callicles,  Hippomachus,  Chaed 
CLEA,  and  others^  seated  round  a tahle^  feasting. 

alcibiades. 

Bring  larger  cups.  This  shall  be  our  gayest  revel.  It 
IS  probaWy  the  last — for  some  of  us  at  least. 

speusippus. 

At  all  events,  it  will  be  long  before  you  taste  such  wine 
again,  Alcibiades. 

* Callicles  plays  a conspicuous  part  in  the  Gorgias  of  Plato. 


SCENES  FROM  “ ATHENIAN  REVELS.” 


37 


CALLICLES. 

Nay,  there  is  excellent  wine  is  Sicily.  When  I was  there 
with  Eurymedon’s  squadron,  I had  many  a long  carouse. 
Y ou  never  saw  finer  grapes  than  those  of  ^tna. 

HIPPOMACnUS. 

The  Greeks  do  not  understand  the  art  of  making  wine 
Your  Persian  is  the  man.  So  rich,  so  fragrant,  so  sparkling. 
I will  tell  you  what  the  Satrap  of  Caria  said  to  me  about 
that  when  I supped  with  him. 


ALCIBIADES. 


hi  ay,  sweet  Hippomachus;  not  a word  to-night  about 
satraps,  or  the  great  king,  or  the  walls  of  Babylon,  or  the 
Pyramids,  or  the  mummies.  Chariclea,  why  do  you  look  so 
sad? 

CHARICLEA. 


Can  I be  cheerful  when  you  are  going  to  leave  me,  Alci- 
biades  ? 


ALCIBIADES. 

My  life,  my  sweet  soul,  it  is  but  for  a short  time.  In 
a year  we  conquer  Sicily.  In  another,  we  humble  Carthage.* 
I will  bring  back  such  robes,  such  neck-laces,  elephants’ 
teeth  by  thousands,  ay,  and  the  elephants  themselves,  if  you 
wish  to  see  them.  Nay,  smile,  my  Chariclea,  or  I shall  talk 
nonsense  to  no  purpose. 


HIPPOMACHUS. 

The  largest  elephant  that  I ever  saw  was  in  the  grounds 
of  Teribazus,  near  Susa.  I wish  that  I had  measured  him. 


ALCIBIADES. 

I wish  that  he  had  trod  upon  you.  Come,  come,  Chari* 
clea,  we  shall  soon  return,  and  then — 


CHARICLEA. 

Yes ; then,  indeed. 

ALCIBIADES. 

Yes,  then — 


• See  Thucydides,  vl.  9Q, 


38 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkiting». 


Then  for  revels  ; then  for  dances, 

Tender  whispers,  meltin^]^  glances. 

Peasants,  pluck  your  richest  fruits  : 

Minstrels,  sound  your  sweetest  flutes: 

Come  in  laughing  crowds  to  greet  us, 

Dark-eyed  daughters  of  Miletus  ; 

Bring  the  myrtles,  bring  the  dice, 

Floods  of  Chian,  hills  of  spice. 

SPEUSIPPU8. 

Whose  lines  are  those,  Alcibiades? 

ALCIBIADES. 

My  own.  Think  yon,  because  I do  not  shut  myself  up 
to  meditate,  and  drink  water,  and  eat  herbs,  that  I cannot 
write  verses?  By  Apollo,  if  I did  not  spend  my  days  in 
politics,  and  my  nights  in  revelry,  I should  have  made  So- 
phocles tremble.  But  now  I never  go  beyond  a little  song 
like  this,  and  never  invoke  any  Muse  but  Chariclea.  But 
come,  Speusippus,  sing.  You  are  a professed  poet.  Let  us 
have  some  of  your  verses. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

My  verses ! How  can  you  talk  so  ? la  professed  poet ! 

ALCIBIADES. 

Oh,  content  you,  sweet  Speusippus.  We  all  know  your 
designs  upon  the  tragic  honors.  Come,  sing.  A chorus  of 
your  new  play. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Nay,  nay— 

HIPPOMACHUS. 

When  a guest  who  is  asked  to  sing  at  a Persian  banquet 
refuses — 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

In  the  name  of  Bacchus— 

ALCIBIADES. 

I am  absolute.  Sing. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

Well,  then,  I will  sing  you  a chorus,  which,  I think,  is  a 
tolerable  imitation  of  Euripides. 


SCENES  FROM  ‘‘ATHENIAN  REVELS,’^  *6^ 

CHARICLEA. 

Of  Euripides  ?— Not  a word! 

ALCIBIADEB. 

Why  so,  sweet  Chariclea  ? 

CHARICLEA. 

Would  you  have  me  betray  my  sex?  Would  you  have 
me  forget  his  Phaedras  and  Sthenobceas?  No;  if  I ever 
suffer  any  lines  of  that  woman-hater,  or  his  imitators,  to  be 
sung  in  my  presence,  may  I*  sell  herbs  like  his  mother,  and 
wear  rags  like  his  Telephus.f 

ALCIBIADES. 

Then,  sweet  Chariclea,  since  you  have  silenced  Speusip- 
pus,  you  shall  sing  yourself.  « 

CHARICLEA 

What  shall  I sing  ? 

ALCIBIADES. 

Nay,  choose  for  yourself. 

CHARICLEA. 

Then  I will  sing  an  old  Ionian  hymn,  which  is  chanted 
every  spring  at  the  feast  of  Venus,  near  Miletus.  I used  to 
sin^  it  in  my  own  country  when  I was  a child  ; and — Ah, 
Alcibiades ! 

ALCIBIADES. 

Dear  Chariclea,  you  shall  sing  something  else.  This 
distresses  you. 

CHARICLEA. 

No:  hand  me  the  lyre: — no  matter.  Vou  will  hear 
the  song  to  disadvantage.  But  if  it  were  sung  as  I have 
heard  it  sung ; — if  this  were  a beautiful  morning  in  spring. 

The  mother  of  Euripides  was  a herb-woman.  This  was  a favorite  topic  of 
Aristophanes. 

t The  hero  of  one  of  the  lost  plays  of  Euripides,  who  appears  to  have  been 
brought  upon  the  stage  in  the  garb  of  a beggar.  See  Aristophanes:  Acharn.430, 
and  in  other  places. 


40 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


and  if  we  were  stand on  a woody  promontory,  with  the 
sea,  and  the  white  sails,  and  the  blue  Cyclades  beneath  us, 
— and  the  ]>ortico  of  a temple  peeping  through  the  trees  on 
a huge  peak  above  our  heads, — and  thousands  of  people, 
with  myrtles  in  their  hands,  thronging  up  the  winding  path, 
their  gay  dresses  and  garlands  disappearing  and  emerging 
by  turns  as  they  passed  round  the  angles  of  the  rock, — then 
perhaps — 


ALCIBIADES. 

Now,  by  Venus  herself,  sweet  lady,  where  you  are  we 
shall  lack  neither  sun,  nor  flowers,  nor  spring,  nor  temple, 
nor  goddess. 

CHARTCLEA.  (SviffS,) 

Let  this  sunny  hour  be  given, 

Venus,  unto  love  and  mirth: 

Smiles  like  thine  are  in  the  heaven; 

Bloom  like  thine  is  on  the  earth ; 

And  the  tinkling  of  the  fountains, 

And  the  murmurs  of  the  sea. 

And  the  echoes  from  the  mountains, 

Speak  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  thea 

By  whate’er  of  soft  expression 
Thou  hast  taught  to  lovers^  eyea 
Faint  denial,  slow  confession. 

Glowing  cheeks  and  stifled  sighs; 

By  the  pleasure  and  the  pain. 

By  the  follies  and  the  wiles, 

Pouting  fondness,  sweet  disdain, 

Happy  tears  and  mournful  smiles; 

Come  with  music  floating  o’er  thee; 

Come  with  violets  springing  round: 

Let  the  Graces  dance  before  thee, 

All  their  golden  zones  unbound; 

Now  in  sport  their  faces  hiding. 

Now,  with  slender  fingers  fair, 

From  their  laughing  eyes  dividing 
The  long  curls  of  rose-crowned  hair. 


ALCIBIADES. 

Sweetly  sung ; but  mournfully,  Chariclea,  for  which  I 
would  chide  you,  but  that  I am  sad  myself.  More  wine 
there.  I wish  to  all  the  gods  that  I had  fairly  sailed  from 
Athens. 


CHARICLEA. 

And  from  me,  Alcibiades  ? 


SCENES  FKOM  “ ATHENIAN  KEVELS 


41 


ALCIBIADES. 

Tes,  from  you,  dear  lady.  The  days  which  immediately 
precede  separation  are  the  most  melancholy  of  our  lives. 

CHARICLEA. 

Except  those  which  immediately  follow  it. 


ALCIBIADES. 

No;  when  I cease  to  see  you,  other  objects  may  compel 
my  attention  ; but  can  I be  near  you  without  thinking  how 
lovely  you  are,  and  how  soon  I must  leave  you  ? 


HIPPOMACHUS. 

Ay;  travelling  soon  puts  such  thoughts  out  of  men’s 
heiids. 

CALLICLES. 

A battle  is  the  best  remedy  for  them. 

CHARICLEA. 

A battle,  I should  think,  might  supply  their  place  with 
others  as  unpleasant. 

CALLICLES. 

No.  The  preparations  are  rather  disagreeable  to  a 
novice.  But  as  soon  as  the  fighting  begins,  by  Jupiter,  it 
is  a noble  time  ; — men  trampling, — shields  clashing, — spears 
breaking, — and  the  pcean  roaring  louder  than  alL 


CHARICLEA. 

But  what  if  you  are  killed  ? 

CALLICLES. 

What  indeed  ? You  must  ask  Speusippus  that  questioi , 
He  is  a philosopher. 

ALCIBIADES. 

Yes,  and  the  greatest  of  philosophers,  if  he  can  answer  it. 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

Pythagoras  is  of  opinion* 


42 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


IIIPPOMACnUS. 

Pythagoras  stole  that  and  all  his  other  opinions  from 
A.sia  and  Egypt.  The  transmigration  of  the  soul  and  the 
regetable  diet  are  derived  from  India.  I met  a Brachmau 
m Sogdiana — 

callicles. 

All  nonsense ! 

chariclea. 

What  think  you,  Alcibiades  ? 

alcibiades. 

I think  that,  if  the  doctrine  be  true,  your  spirit  will  be 
transfused  into  one  of  the  doves  who  carry  * ambrosia  to 
the  gods  or  verses  to  the  mistresses  of  poets.  Do  you  re- 
member Anacreon’s  lines  ? How  should  you  like  such  an 
office  ? 

chariclea. 

If  I were  to  be  your  dove,  Alcibiades,  and  you  would 
treat  me  as  Anacreon  treated  his,  and  let  me  nestle  in  your 
breast  and  drink  from  your  cup,  I would  submit  even  to 
carry  your  love-letters  to  other  ladies. 

callicles. 

What,  in  the  name  of  Jupiter,  is  the  use  of  all  these 
speculations  about  death  ? Socrates  once  f lectured  me  upon 
it  the  best  part  of  a day.  I have  hated  the  sight  of  him 
ever  since.  Such  things  may  suit  an  old  sophist  when  he  is 
fasting ; but  in  the  midst  of  wine  and  music — 

HIPPOMACHUS.  ^ 

I differ  from  you.  The  enlightened  Egyptians  bring 
skeletons  into  their  banquets,  in  order  to  remind  their  guests 
to  make  the  most  of  their  life  while  they  have  it. 

callicles. 

I want  neither  skeleton  nor  sophist  to  teach  me  that 
lesson.  More  wine,  I pray  you,  and  less  wisdom.  If  you 
must  believe  something  which  you  never  can  know,  why  not 


t So#  tfeo  f lQd©  ot  PlatQ’o  Oorgia#. 


43 


SCENES  FROM  “ATHENIAN  llEVELS.’^ 


be  contented  with  the  long  stories  about  the  othe>  »vorld 
which  are  told  us  when  we  are  initiated  at  the  Elc  asiuian 
mysteries. 

CHARICLEA. 

And  what  are  those  stories  ? 


ALCTBIADES. 

Are  not  you  initiated,  Chariclea? 

CHARICLEA. 


No;  my  mother  was  a Lydian,  abarbarifm;  and  there> 
fore — 


ALCIBIADES. 

I understand.  Now  the  curse  of  Venus  on  the  fools  who> 
made  so  hateful  a law.  Speusippus,  does  not  your  friend 
Euripides  | say — 


“ The  land  where  thou  art  prosperous  is  thy  country  ? 

Surely  we  ought  to  say  to  every  lady 

“ The  land  where  thou  art  pretty  is  thy  country/' 

Besides,  to  exclude  foreign  beauties  from  the  chorus  of  the 
initiated  in  the  Elysian  fields  is  less  cruel  to  them  than  to 
ourselves.  Chariclea,  you  shall  be  initiated. 


When? 

CHARICLEA. 

Now. 

ALCIBIADES, 

Where  ? 

CHARICLEA. 

Here. 

ALCIBIADES, 

Delightful ! 

CHARICLEA, 

. . *The^ene  which  follows  is  founded  upon  history.  Thucydides  tells  us,  n 
nis  sixth  book,  that  about  this  time  Aleibiades  was  suspected  of  having  assisted 
at  a mock  celebration  of  these  famous  mysteries.  It  was  the  opinion  of  the  vul- 
gar among  the  Athenians  that  extraordinary  privileges  were  granted  in  the 
other  world  to  all  who  had  been  initiated. 

t The  right  of  Euripides  to  this  line  is  somewhat  disputable,  See  Aristo- 
phanes ; Plutus,  1152. 


44 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sPEusirrus. 

Bat  tliere  must  be  an  interval  of  a year  between  the 
purification  and  the  initiation. 

ALCIBIADES. 

We  will  suppose  all  that. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

And  nine  days  of  rigid  mortification  of  the  senses. 

ALCIBIADES. 

We  will  suppose  that  too.  I am  sure  it  was  supposed, 
with  as  little  reason,  when  I was  initiated. 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

But  you  are  sworn  to  secrecy. 

ALCIBIADES. 

You  a sophist,  and  talk  of  oaths  ! You  a pupil  of  Euri 
pides,  and  forget  his  maxims  ? 

“ My  lips  have  sworn  it ; but  my  mind  is  free.”  • 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

But  Alcibiades — 

ALCIBIADES. 

What ! Are  you  afraid  of  Ceres  and  Proserpine  ? 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

No — but — but — I — that  is  I — ^but  it  is  best  to  be  safe — ^1 
mean — Suppose  there  should  be  something  in  it. 

ALCIBIADES. 

Now,  by  Mercury,  I shall  die  with  laughing.  Oh,  Speu  • 
sippus,  Speusippus  ! Go  back  to  your  old  father.  Dig  vine- 
yards, and  judge  causes,  and  be  a respectable  citizen.  But 
never,  while  you  live,  again  dream  of  being  a philosopher. 


• See  Euripides ; Hyppolytus,  608.  For  the  Jesuitical  morality  of  this  line 
Euripides  is  bitterly  attacked  by  the  comic  poet. 


46 


SCENES  FROM  ""ATHENIA.N  REVELS.” 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

Nay,  I was  only — 

ALCIBIADES. 

A pupil  of  Gorgias  and  Melesigenes  afraid  of  Tartarus ! 
In  what  region  of  the  infernal  world  do  you  expect  your 
domicile  to  be  fixed  ? Shall  you  roll  a stone  like  Sisyphus  ? 
Hard  exercise,  Speusippus ! 

SPEUSIPPUS* 

In  the  name  of  all  the  gods — 


ALCIBIADES. 

Or  shall  you  sit  starved  and  thirsty  in  the  midst  of  fruit 
and  wine  like  Tantalus  ? Poor  fellow  ! I think  I see  your 
face  as  you  are  springing  up  to  the  branches  and  missing 
your  aim.  Oh,  Bacchus ! Oh,  Mercury ! 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

Alcibiades ! 

ALCIBIADES. 

Or  perhaps  you  will  be  food  for  a vulture,  like  the  huge 
fellow  who  was  rude  to  Latona. 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

Alcibiades ! 

ALCIBIADES. 

Never  fear.  Minos  will  not  be  so  cruel.  Your  elo* 
quence  will  triumph  over  all  accusations.  The  furies  will 
skulk  away  like  disap])ointed  sycophants.  Only  address  the 
judges  of  hell  in  the  speech  which  you  were  prevented  from 
speaking  last  assembly.  “ When  I consider  ” — is  not  that 
the  beginning  of  it  ? Come,  man,  do  not  be  angry.  Why 
do  you  pace  up  and  down  with  such  long  steps?  You  are 
ndt  in  Tartarus  yet.  You  seem  to  think  that  you  are  already 
stalking  like  poor  Achilles, 

“ With  stride 

“ Majestic  through  the  plain  of  Asphodel.”  ♦ 

SPEUSIPPUS. 

How  can  you  talk  so,  when  you  know  that  I believe  all 
that  foolery  as  little  as  you  do  ? 

* See  Homer’s  Odyssey,  xi.  538. 


40 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


ALCIIilADES. 

Then  iniirch.  You  shall  l)c  tlic  crier.*  Callicies,  you 
shall  carry  the  torch.  Why  do  you  stare  ? 

CALLICLES. 

I do  not  much  like  the  frolic. 

ALCIBIADES. 

Kay,  surely  you  are  not  taken  with  a fit  of  piety.  If  all 
bo  true  that  is  told  of  you,  you  have  as  little  reason  to  think 
the  gods  vindictive  as  any  man  breathing.  If  you  be  not 
belied,  a certain  golden  goblet  which  I have  seen  at  your 
house  was  once  in  the  temple  of  Juno  at  Corcyra.  And 
men  say  ^hat  there  was  a priestess  at  Tarentum — 

CALLICLES. 

A fig  for  the  gods  ! I was  thinking  about  the  Archons. 
You  will  have  an  accusation  laid  against  you  to-morrow.  It 
is  not  very  pleasant  to  be  tried  before  the  king.f 

ALCIBIADES. 

Kever  fear  : there  is  not  a sycophant  in  Attica  who  would 
dare  to  breathe  a word  against  me,  for  the  golden  $ plane- 
tree  of  the  great  king. 

HIPPOMACHUS. 

That  plane-tree — 

ALCIBIADES. 

Never  mind  the  plane-tree.  Come,  Callicies,  you  were 
not  so  timid  when  you  plundered  the  merchantman  off  Cape 
Malea.  Take  up  the  torch  and  move.  Plippomachus,  tell 
one  of  the  slaves  to  bring  a sow.§ 

CALLICLES. 

And  what  part  are  you  to  play  ? 

* The  crier  and  torch-bearer  were  important  functionaries  at  the  celebration 
of  the  Eleusinian  mysteries, 

t The  name  of  king  was  given  in  the  Athenian  democracy  to  the  magistrate 
who  exercised  those  spiritual  functions  which  in  the  monarchical  times  had  be- 
longed to  the  sovereign.  His  court  took  cognizance  of  offences  against  the  re- 
ligion of  the  state. 

t See  Herodotus,  viii.  28. 

§ A sow  was  sacriheed  to  Ceres  at  the  admission  to  the  greater  mysteries. 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  47 
ALCIBIADES. 

I shall  be  hierophant.  Herald,  to  your  office.  Torch- 
bearer,  advance  with  the  lights.  Come  forward,  fair  novice. 
We  will  celebrate  the  rite  within.  (Exeunt?) 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN 
WRITERS. 

{Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine^  January y 1824.) 

No.  I.  DANTE. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night 
If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crowu’st  the  smiling  mom 
With  thy  bright  circlet.  Milton. 

In  a review  of  Italian  literature,  Dante  has  a double  claim 
to  precedency.  He  was  the  earliest  and  the  greatest  writer 
©f  his  country.  He  was  the  first  man  who  fully  descried  and 
exhibited  the  powers  of  his  native  dialect.  The  Latin  tongue, 
which,  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  and  in  the 
hands  of  the  greatest  masters,  had  still  been  poor,  feeble,  and 
singularly  unpoetical,  and  which  had,  in  the  age  of  Dante, 
been  debased  by  the  admixture  of  innumerable  barbarous 
words  and  idioms,  was  still  cultivated  with  superstitious 
veneration,  and  received,  in  the  last  stage  of  corrujition, 
more  honors  than  it  had  deserved  in  the  period  of  its  life 
and  vigor.  It  was  the  language  of  the  cabinet,  of  the  uni- 
versity, of  the  church.  It  was  employed  by  all  who  aspired 
to  distinction  in  the  higher  walks  of  poetry.  In  compassion 
to  the  ignorance  of  his  mistress,  a cavalier  might  now  and 
then  proclaim  his  ]3assion  in  Tuscan  or  Proven9al  rhymes. 
The  vulgar  might  occasionally  be  edified  by  a pious  allegory 
ill  the  popular  jargon.  But  no  writer  had  conceived  it  possi- 
ble that  the  dialect  of  peasants  and  market-women  should 
possess  sufficient  energy  and  precision  for  a majestic  and 
durable  work.  Dante  adventured  first.  He  detected  the 
rich  treasures  of  thought  and  diction  which  still  lay  latent 
in  their  ore.  He  refined  them  into  purity.  He  burnished 
them,  into  splendor.  He  fitted  them  for  every  purpose  of 


48  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writtn(5>(Ii 

use  and  magnificence.  And  lie  tliiis  acquired  the  glory,  not 
only  of  producing  the  finest  narrative  poem  of  modern  times, 
but  also  of  creating  a language,  distinguished  by  unrivalled 
melody,  and  peculiarly  capable  of  furnishing  to  lofty  and 
passionate  thoughts  their  appropriate  garb  of  severe  and 
concise  expression. 

To  many  this  may  appear  a singular  panegyric  on  the 
Italian  tongue.  Indeed  the  great  majority  of  the  young 
gentlemen  and  young  ladies,  who,  when  they  are  asked 
whether  they  read  Italian,  answer  Yes,”  never  go  beyond 
the  stories  at  the  end  of  their  grammar, — The  Pastor  Fido, 
— or  an  act  of  Artaserse.  They  could  as  soon  read  a Baby- 
lonian brick  as  a canto  of  Dante.  Hence  it  is  a general  opin- 
ion among  those  who  know  little  or  nothing  of  the  subject, 
that  this  admirable  language  is  adapted  only  to  the  effem- 
inate cant  of  sonnetteers,  musicians  and  connoisseurs. 

The  fact  is,  that  Dante  and  Petrarch  have  been  the  Oro- 
raasdes  and  Arimanes  of  Italian  literature.  I wish  not  to 
detract  from  the  merits  of  Petrarch.  No  one  can  doubt 
that  his  poems  exhibit,  amidst  some  imbecility  and  more 
affectation,  much  elegance,  ingenuity  and  tenderness.  They 
present  us  with  a mixture  which  can  only  be  compared  to 
the  whimsical  concert  described  by  the  humorous  poet  of 
Modena : 

“ S*  iidian  gli  usignuoli,  al  primo  albore, 

E gli  asini  can  tar  versi  d’  amore.”* 

I am  not,  however,  at  present  speaking  of  the  intrinsic  ex- 
cellencies of  his  writings,  which  I shall  take  another  op- 
portunity to  examine,  but  of  the  effect  which  they  produce 
on  the  literature  of  Italy.  The  florid  and  luxurious  charms 
of  his  style  enticed  the  poets  and  the  public  from  the  con- 
templation of  nobler  and  sterner  models.  In  truth,  though 
a rude  state  of  society  is  that  in  which  great  original  woiis 
are  most  frequently  produced,  it  is  also  that  in  which  they 
aie  worst  appreciated.  This  may  appear  paradoxical ; but 
it  is  proved  by  experience,  and  is  consistent  with  reason.  To 
b(3  without  any  received  canons  of  taste  is  good  for  the  few 
who  can  create,  but  bad  for  the  many  who  can  only  imitate 
and  judge.  Great  and  active  minds  cannot  remain  at  rest. 
In  a cultivated  age  they  are  too  often  contented  to  move  on  in 
the  beaten  path.  But  where  no  path  exists  they  will  make 
one.  Thus  the  Iliad,  the  Odyssey,  the  Divine  Comedy,  ap- 
peared in  dark  and  half  barbarous  times : and  thus  of  the  few 


CBITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  49 

original  works  which  liave  been  produced  in  more  polished 
ages,  we  owe  a large  proportion  to  men  in  low  stations  and  of 
uninformed  minds.  I will  instance,  in  our  own  language, 
the  Pilgrim’s  Progress  and  Robinson  Crusoe.  Of  all  the 
prose  works  of  fiction  which  we  possess,  these  are,  I will  not 
say  the  best,  but  the  most  peculiar,  the  most  unprecedented, 
the  most  inimitable.  Had  Bunyan  and  Defoe  been  educated 
gentlemen,  they  would  probably  have  published  translations 
and  imitations  of  French  romances  ‘‘  by  a person  of  quality.” 
I am  not  sure  that  we  should  have  had  Lear  if  Shakspeare 
Lad  been  able  to  read  Sophocles. 

But  these  circumstances,  while  they  foster  genius,  are  un- 
favorable to  the  science  of  criticism.  Men  judge  by  com- 
parison. They  are  unable  to  estimate  the  grandeur  of  an 
object  when  there  is  no  standard  by  Avhich  they  can  measure 
it.  One  of  the  French  philosophers  (I  beg  Gerard’s  pardon), 
who  accompanied  Napoleon  to  Egypt,  tells  us  that,  when  he 
first  visited  the  great  Pyramid,  he  was  surj^rised  to  see  it  so 
diminutive.  It  stood  alone  in  a boundless  plain.  There 
was  nothing  near  it  from  which  he  could  calculate  its  mag- 
nitude. But  when  the  camp  was  pitched  beside  it,  and  the 
tents  appeared  like  diminutive  specks  around  its  base,  he  then 
perceived  the  immensity  of  this  mightiest  work  of  man.  In 
the  same  manner,  it  is  not  till  a crowd  of  petty  writers  has 
sprung  up  that  the  merit  of  the  great  master-spirits  of  liter- 
ature is  understood. 

We  have  indeed  amjde  proof  that  Dante  was  highly  ad- 
mired in  his  own  and  the  following  age.  I wish  that  we 
had  equal  proof  that  he  was  admired  for  his  excellencies.  But 
it  is  a remarkable  corroboration  of  what  has  been  said,  that 
til  is  great  man  seems  to  have  been  utterly  unable  to  appreciate 
liimself.  In  his  treatise  De  Vidgari  Eloquentia^  he  talks 
with  satisfaction  of  what  he  has  done  for  Italian  literature, 
of  the  purity  and  correctness  of  his  style.  Cependant^'^ 
says  a favorite  * writer  of  mine,  ‘‘  il  vUest  ni  pur^  ni  correct^ 
mais  il  est  createurP  Considering  the  difficulties  wuth  which 
Dante  liad  to  struggle,  we  may  perhaps  be  more  inclined 
than  the  French  critic  to  allows  him  this  praise.  Still  it  is 
by  no  means  his  highest  or  most  peculiar  title  to  applause.  It 
is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  those  qualities  which  escaped 
the  notice  of  the  poet  himself  were  not  likely  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  commentators.  The  fact  is,  that,  while  the 
public  homage  w^as  paid  to  some  absurdities  with  which  hk 

* Sifsmondi  ; du  Midi  V 

V 


t>^  — MISCELLAKEOUS  WKITIJCG^-, 

works  may  be  justly  charged,  and  to  many  more  which  were 
falsely  imputed  to  them, — while  lecturers  were  paid  to  ex- 
pound and  eulogize  his  physics,  his  metaphysics,  his  theology, 
all  bad  of  their  kind, — while  annotators  labored  to  detect 
allegorical  meanings  of  which  the  author  never  dreamed,  the 
great  powers  of  his  imagination,  and  the  incomparable  force 
of  his  style,  were  neither  admired  nor  imitated.  Arimanes 
had  prevailed.  The  Divine  Comedy  was  to  that  ago  what 
St.  Paul’s  Cathedral  was  to  Omai.  The  poor  Otaheitean 
stared  listlessly  for  a moment  at  the  huge  cupola,  and  ran 
into  a toyshop  to  play  with  beads.  Italy,  too,  was  charmed 
with  literary  trinkets,  and  played  with  them  for  four  centuries. 

From  the  time  of  Petrarch  to  the  appearance  of  Alfieri’s 
tragedies,  we  may  trace  in  almost  every  page  of  Italian 
literature  the  influence  of  those  celebrated  sonnets  which, 
from  the  nature  both  of  their  beauties  and  their  faults,  were 
peculiarly  unfit  to  be  models  for  general  imitation.  Almost 
all  the  poets  of  that  period,  however  different  in  the  degree 
and  quality  of  their  talents,  are  characterized  by  great  ex- 
aggeration, and,  as  a necessary  consequence,  great  coldness 
of  sentiment ; by  a passion  for  frivolous  and  tawdry  orna- 
ment ; and,  above  all,  by  an  extreme  feebleness  and  dif- 
fuseness of  style.  Tasso,  Marino,  Guarini,  Metastasio,  and  a 
crowd  of  writers  of  inferior  merit  and  celebrity,  were  spell- 
bound in  the  enchanted  gardens  of  a gaudy  and  meretricious 
Alcina,  who  concealed  debility  and  deformity  beneath  the 
deceitful  semblance  of  loveliness  and  health.  Ariosto,  the 
great  Ariosto  himself,  like  his  own  Ruggiero,  stooped  for  a 
time  to  linger  amidst  the  magic  flowers  and  fountains,  and  to 
caress  the  gay  and  painted  sorceress.  But  to  him,  as  to  his 
own  Ruggiero,  had  been  given  the  omnipotent  ring  and  the 
winged  courser,  which  bore  him  from  the  paradise  of  de- 
cej3tion  to  the  regions  of  light  and  nature. 

The  evil  of  which  I speak  was  not  confined  to  the  graver 
poets.  It  infected  satire,  comedy,  burlesque.  No  person 
can  admire  more  than  I do  the  great  master-pieces  of  wit  and 
humor  which  Italy  has  produced.  Still  I cannot  but  discern 
and  lament  a great  deficiency,  which  is  common  to  them  all. 
I find  in  them  abundance  of  ingenuity,  of  droll  naivete,  of 
profound  and  just  reflection,  of  happy  expression.  Man- 
ners, characters,  opinions,  are  treated  with  “ a most  learned 
spirit  of  human  dealing.”  But  something  is  still  wanting. 
We  read,  and  we  admire,  and  we  yawn.  We  look  in  vain 
for  the  bacchanalian  fury  which  inspired  the  comedy  of 


CRITICISMS  OK  THE  TRIKClPAL  ITALlAK  WRITERS.  51 

Athens,  for  the  fierce  and  witliering  scorn  whicli  animates 
the  invectives  of  Juvenal  and  Dryden,  or  even  for  tlie  com- 
pact and  pointed  diction  which  adds  zest  to  the  verses  of 
Pope  and  Boileau.  There  is  no  enthusiasm,  no  energy, 
no  condensation,  nothing  which  springs  from  strong  feeling, 
nothing  which  tends  to  excite  it.  Many  fine  thoughts  and 
fine  expressions  reward  the  toil  of  reading.  Still  it  is  a 
toil.  The  Secchia  Rapita,  in  some  points  the  best  poem  of 
its  kind,  is  painfully  diffuse  and  languid.  The  Animali 
Parlanti  of  Casti  is  perfectly  intolerable.  I admire  the 
dexterity  of  the  plot,  and  the  liberality  of  the  opinions.  I 
admit  that  it  is  impossible  to  turn  to  a page  which  does  not 
contain  something  that  deserves  to  be  remembered  ; but  it 
is  at  least  six  times  as  long  as  it  ought  to  be.  And  the 
garrulous  feebleness  of  the  style  is  a still  greater  fault  than 
the  length  of  the  work. 

It  may  be  thought  that  I have  gone  too  far  in  attributing 
these  evils  to  the  influence  of  the  works  and  the  fame  of 
Petrarch.  It  cannot,  however,  be  doubted  that  they  have 
arisen,  in  a great  measure,  from  a neglect  of  the  style  of 
Dante.  This  is  not  more  proved  by  the  decline  of  Italian 
poetry  than  by  its  resuscitation.  After  the  lapse  of  four 
hundred  and  fifty  years,  there  appeared  a man  capable  of 
appreciating  and  imitating  the  father  of  Tuscan  literature — 
Vittorio  Alfieri.  Like  the  prince  in  the  nursery  tale,  he  sought 
and  found  the  Sleeping  Beauty  within  the  recesses  which 
had  so  long  concealed  her  from  mankind.  The  portal  was 
indeed  rusted  by  time  ; — the  dust  of  ages  had  accumulated 
on  the  hangings  ; — the  furniture  was  of  antique  fashion  ; — 
and  the  gorgeous  color  of  the  embroidery  had  faded.  But 
the  living  charms  which  were  well  worth  all  the  rest  re- 
mained in  the  bloom  of  eternal  youth,  and  well  rewarded 
the  bold  adventurer  who  roused  them  from  their  long  slum- 
ber. In  every  line  of  the  Philip  and  the  Saul,  the  greatest 
poems,  I think,  of  the  eighteenth  century,  we  may  trace  the 
influence  of  that  mighty  genius  which  has  immortalized  the 
ill-starred  love  of  Francesca,  and  the  paternal  agonies  of  Ugo- 
lino.  Alfieri  bequeathed  the  sovereignty  of  Italian  literature 
to  the  author  of  the  Aristodemus — a man  of  genius  scarcely 
inferior  to  his  own,  and  a still  more  devoted  disciple  of  the 
great  Florentine.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  this  eminent 
writer  has  sometimes  pushed  too  far  his  idolatry  of  Dante. 
To  borrow  a sprightly  illustration  from  Sir  John  Denham,  he 
has  not  only  imitated  his  garb,  but  borrowed  his  clothes.  He 


52  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

often  quotes  Ills  ])lir:is«.\s  ; and  lie  lias,  not  veiy  jinra  iously  as 
it  a]>|)ears  to  me,  imitated  his  versilieation.  Nevertheless,  he 
has  displayed  many  of  the  higher  excellencies  of  his  master  ; 
and  his  works  may  justly  insjiire  us  with  a hope  that  Italian 
language  will  long  flourish  under  a new  literary  dynasty,  or 
rather  under  the  legitimate  line,  which  has  at  length  been 
restored  to  a throne  long  occujiied  by  s])ecious  usurpers. 

The  man  to  whom  the  literature  of  his  country  owes  its 
Drigin  and  its  revival  was  born  in  times  singularly  adapted 
to  call  forth  his  extraordinary  powers.  Religious  zeal,  chiv- 
alrous love  and  honor,  democratic  liberty,  are  the  three 
most  powerful  principles  that  have  ever  influenced  the  char- 
acter of  large  masses  of  men.  Each  of  them  singly  has 
often  excited  the  greatest  enthusiasm,  and  produced  the 
most  important  changes.  In  the  time  of  Dante  all  the  three, 
often  in  amalgamation,  generally  in  conflict,  agitated  the 
public  mind.  The  preceding  generation  had  witnessed  the 
wrongs  and  the  revenge  of  the  brave,  the  accomplished,  the 
unfortunate  Emperor  Frederic  the  Second, — a poet  in  an 
age  of  schoolmen, — a philosopher  in  an  age  of  monks, — a 
statesman  in  an  age  of  crusaders.  During  the  whole  life  of 
the  poet,  Italy  was  experiencing  the  consequences  of  the 
memorable  struggle  which  he  had  maintained  against  the 
Church.  The  finest  works  of  imagination  have  always  been 
produced  in  times  of  political  convulsion,  as  the  richest 
vineyards  and  the  sweetest  flowers  always  grow  on  tke  soil 
which  has  been  fertilized  by  the  fiery  deluge  of  a volcano. 
To  look  no  further  than  the  literary  history  of  our  own 
country,  can  we  doubt  that  Shakspeare  was  in  a great  meas- 
ure produced  by  the  Reformation,  and  Wordsworth  by  the 
French  Revolution  ? Poets  often  avoid  political  transac- 
tions ; they  often  effect  to  despise  them.  But,  whether  they 
perceive  it  or  not,  they  must  be  influenced  by  them.  As 
long  as  their  minds  have  any  point  of  contact  with  those  of 
their  fellow-men,  the  electric  impulse,  at  whatever  distance 
it  may  originate,  will  be  circuitously  communicated  to  them. 

This  will  be  the  case  even  in  large  societies,  where  the 
division  of  labor  enables  many  speculative  men  to  observe 
the  face  of  nature,  or  to  analyze  their  own  minds,  at  a dis- 
tance from  the  seat  of  political  transactions.  In  the  little 
republic  of  which  Dante  was  a member  the  state  of  things 
was  very  different.  These  small  communities  are  most  un 
mercifully  abused  by  most  of  our  modern  jirofessors  of  the 
science  of  government.  In  such  states  they  tell  us>  factions 


CRITICISMS  OX  THE  TRIXCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  63 

are  always  most  violent:  where  both  parties  are  cooped  up 
within  a narrow  space,  political  difference  necessarily  pro- 
duces ])ersonal  malignity.  Everyman  must  be  a soldier; 
every  moment  may  produce  a war.  No  citizen  can  lie  down 
secure  tliat  he  shall  not  be  roused  by  the  alarm-bell,  to  repel 
or  avenge  an  injury.  In  such  petty  quarrels  Greece  squan- 
dered the  blood  which  might  have  purchased  for  her  the 
permanent  empire  of  the  world,  and  Italy  wasted  the  energy 
and  the  abilities  which  would  have  enabled  her  to  defend 
her  independence  against  the  Pontiffs  and  the  CaBsars. 

All  this  is  true  ; yet  there  is  still  a compensation.  Man- 
kind has  not  derived  so  much  benefit  from  the  empire  of 
Rome  as  from  the  city  of  Athens,  nor  from  the  kingdom  of 
France  as  from  the  city  of  Florence.  The  violence  of  party 
feeling  may  be  an  evil ; but  it  calls  forth  that  activity  of  mind 
which  in  some  states  of  society  it  is  desirable  to  produce 
at  any  expense.  Universal  soldiership  maybe  an  evil;  but 
where  every  man  is  a soldier  there  will  be  no  standing  army. 
And  is  it  no  evil  that  one  man  in  every  fifty  should  be  bred 
to  the  trade  of  slaughter;  should  live  only  by  destroying 
and  by  exposing  himself  to  be  destroyed ; should  fight 
without  enthusiasm  and  conquer  without  glory;  be  sent 
to  a hospital  when  wounded,  and  rot  on  a dunghill  when 
old?  Such,  over  more  than  two-thirds  of  Europe,  is  the 
fate  of  soldiers.  It  was  something  that  the  citizen  of 
Milan  or  Florence  fought,  not  merely  in  the  vague  and 
rhetorical  sense  in  which  the  words  are  often  used,  but 
in  sober  truth,  for  his  parents,  his  children,  his  lands,  his 
house,  his  altars.  It  was  something  that  he  marched  forth 
to  battle  beneath  the  Carroccio,  which  had  been  the  object 
of  his  childish  veneration;  that  his  aged  father  looked  down 
from  the  battlements  on  his  exploits ; that  his  friends  and 
his  rivals  were  the  witnesses  of  his  glory.  If  he  fell,  he  was 
consigned  to  no  venal  or  heedless  guardians.  The  same  day 
saw  him  conveyed  within  the  walls  which  he  had  defended. 
His  wounds  were  dressed  by  his  mother;  his  confession  was 
whispered  to  the  friendly  priest  who  had  heard  and  absolved 
the  follies  of  his  youth;  his  last  sigh  was  breathed  upon  the 
lips  of  the  lady  of  his  love.  Surely  there  is  no  sword  like 
that  which  is  beaten  out  of  a ploughshare.  Surely  this  state 
of  things  was  not  unmixedly  bad : its  evils  were  alleviated 
by  enthusiasm  and  by  tenderness;  and  it  will  at  least  be  ac- 
knowledged that  it  was  well  fitted  to  nurse  poetical  genius 
in  an  imaginative  and  observant  xiind. 


54 


MACAULAY’S  MlSCELLAX UOUS  AVniTIXGS. 


Nor  (lid  tlie  religious  S|)irit  of  lliC  age  tend  less  to  this 
result  th;ui  its  )»ol.ilic;d  eircuinstane(\s.  h'anaticisin  is  an 
evil,  but  it  is  not  the  greatest^  of  evils.  Jt  is  good  that  a 
people  should  be  roused  by  any  means  from  a state  of  utter 
tor])or ; — that  their  minds  should  be  diverted  from  objects 
merely  sensual,  to  meditations,  however  erroneous,  on  the 
mysteries  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  world ; and  Jfrom  in- 
terests which  are  immediately  selfish  to  those  whicli  relate 
to  the  past,  the  future,  and  the  remote.  These  effects  have 
sometimes  been  produced  by  the  worst  superstitions  that 
ever  existed;  but  the  Catholic  religion,  even  in  the  time  of  its 
utmost  extravagance  and  atrocity,  never  wholly  lost  the 
spirit  of  the  Great  Teacher,  whose  precepts  form  the  noblest 
code,  as  his  conduct  furnished  the  purest  example,  of  moral 
excellence.  It  is  of  all  religions  the  most  poetical.  The 
ancient  superstitions  furnished  the  fancy  with  beautiful 
images,  but  took  no  hold  on  the  heart.  The  doctrines  of  the 
Reformed  Churches  have  most  powerfully  influenced  the 
feelings  and  the  conduct  of  men,  but  have  not  presented 
them  with  visions  of  sensible  beauty  and  grandeur.  The 
Roman  Catholic  Church  has  united  to  the  awful  doctrines 
of  the  one  what  Mr.  Coleridge  calls  the  “fair  humanities” 
of  the  other.  It  has  enriched  sculpture  and  painting  with 
the  loveliest  and  most  majestic  forms.  To  the  Phidian 
Jupiter  it  can  oppose  the  Moses  of  Michael  Angelo;  and  to 
the  voluptuous  beauty  of  the  Queen- of  Cyprus,  the  serene 
and  pensive  loveliness  of  the  Virgin  Mother.  The  legends 
• of  its  martyrs  and  its  saints  may  vie  in  ingenuity  and  inter- 
est with  the  mythological  fables  of  Greece ; its  ceremonies 
and  processions  were  the  delight  of  the  vulgar ; the  huge 
fabric  of  secular  power  with  which  it  was  connected  attracted 
the  admiration  of  the  statesman.  At  the  same  time,  it  never 
lost  sight  of  the  most  solemn  and  tremendous  doctrines  of 
Christianity,  — the  incarnate  God,  — the  judgment,  — the 
letribution, — the  eternity  of  happiness  or  torment.  Thus, 
while,  like  the  ancient  religions,  it  received  incalculable  sup- 
port from  policy  and  ceremony,  it  never  wholly  became, 
like  those  religions,  a merely  political  and  ceremonial  insti- 
tution. 

The  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century  was,  as  Machiar- 
velli  has  remarked,  the  era  of  a great  revival  of  this  extra- 
ordinary system.  The  policy  of  Innocent, — the  growth  of 
the  inquisition  and  the  mendicant  orders, — the  wars  against 
Che  Albigenses,  the  Pagans  of  the  East,  and  the  unfortunate 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  riUNCIPAL  ITALIAN  AVKITERS.  55 

princes  of  the  house  of  Swabia,  agitated  Italy  during  the  two 
following  generations.  In  this  point  Dante  was  completely 
under  the  influence  of  his  age.  He  was  a man  of  a turbid 
and  melancholy  spirit.  In  early  youth  he  had  entertained 
a strong  and  unfortunate  passion,  which,  long  after  the 
death  of  her  whom  he  loved,  continued  to  haunt  liim.  Dis- 
sipation, ambition,  misfortunes  had  not  effaced  it.  lie  was 
not  only  a sincere,  but  a passionate,  believer.  The  crimes  and 
abuses  of  the  Church  of  Rome  were  indeed  loathsome  to  him ; 
but  to  all  its  doctrines  and  all  its  rites  he  adhered  with 
enthusiastic  fondness  and  veneration  ; and,  at  length,  driven 
from  his  native  country,  reduced  to  a situation  the  most 
painful  to  a man  of  his  disposition,  condemned  to  learn  by 
experience  that  no  * food  is  so  bitter  as  the  bread  of  depen- 
dence, and  no  ascent  so  painful  as  the  staircase  of  a patron, 
—his  wounded  spirit  took  refuge  in  visionary  devotion. 
Beatrice,  the  unforgotten  object  of  his  early  tenderness, 
was  invested  by  his  imagination  with  glorious  and  mys- 
terious attributes  ; she  was  enthroned  among  the  highest  of 
the  celestial  hierarchy  : Almighty  Wisdom  had  assigned  to 
her  the  care  of  the  sinful  and  unhappy  wanderer  who  had 
loved  her  with  such  a perfect  love,  f By  a confusion,  like 
that  which  often  takes  place  in  dreams,  he  has  sometimes 
lost  sight  of  her  human  nature,  and  even  of  her  personal 
existence,  and  seems  to  consider  her  as  one  of  the  attributes 
of  the  Deity. 

But  those  religious  hopes  which  had  released  the  mind 
of  the  sublime  enthusiast  from  the  terrors  of  death  had  not 
rendered  his  speculations  on  human  life  more  cheerful. 
This  is  an  inconsistency  which  may  often  be  observed  in 
men  of  a similar  temperament.  He  hoped  for  happiness  be- 
yond the  grave  : but  he  felt  none  on  earth.  It  is  from  this 
cause,  more  than  from  any  other,  that  his  description  of 
Heaven  is  so  far  inferior  to  the  Hell  or  the  Purgatory. 
With  the  passions  and  miseries  of  the  suffering  spirits  he 
feels  a strong  sympathy.  But  among  the  beatified  he  ap- 
pears as  one  who  has  nothing  in  common  with  them,-?— as 
one  who  is  incapable  of  comprehending,  not  only  the  degree, 
but  the  nature  of  their  enjoyment.  We  think  that  we  see 
him  standing  amidst  those  smiling  and  radiant  spirits  with 

• “ Til  proverai  si  come  sa  di  sale 

Lo  pane  altrui,  e come  h duro  calle 
Lo  faceiidere  e ’1  salir  per  1’  altrui  scale.” 

Paradiso,  canto  xvil 

t L’  aroico  mio,  © soa  della  ventura,”— caato  iu 


56  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

that  scov^l  of  unutterable  misery  on  liis  brow,  and  that 
curl  of  bitter  disdain  on  his  lips,  which  all  his  portraits  have 
preserved  and  wliich  might  furnish  Chantrey  with  hints  for 
the  head  of  his  j)rojccted  Satan. 

There  is  no  j)oet  whose  intellectual  and  moral  charactct 
are  so  closely  connected.  The  great  source,  as  it  appears 
to  me,  of  the  power  of  the  Divine  Comedy  is  the  strong 
belief  with  which  the  story  seems  to  be  told.  In  this 
respect,  the  only  books  which  approach  to  its  excellence  are 
Gulliver’s  Travels  and  Robinson  Crusoe.  The  solemnity  of 
his  asseverations,  the  consistency  and  minuteness  of  his 
details,  the  earnestness  with  which  he  labors  to  make  the 
reader  understand  the  exact  shape  and  size  of  every  thing 
that  he  describes,  give  an  air  of  reality  to  his  wildest  fictions. 
P should  only  weaken  this  statement  by  quoting  instances 
of  a feeling  which  pervades  the  whole  work,  and  to  which 
it  owes  much  of  its  fascination.  This  is  the  real  justification 
of  the  many  passages  in  his  poem  which  bad  critics  have  con- 
demned as  grotesque.  I am  concerned  to  see  that  Mr.  Cary, 
to  whom  Dante  owes  more  than  ever  poet  owed  to  trans- 
lator, has  sanctioned  an  accusation  utterly  unworthy  of  his 
abilities.  His  solicitude,”  says  that  gentleman,  “ to  define 
all  his  images  in  such  a manner  as  to  bring  them  within  the 
circle  of  our  vision,  and  to  subject  them  to  the  power  of 
the  pencil,  renders  him  little  better  than  grotesque,  where 
Milton  has  since  taught  us  to  expect  sublimity.”  It  is  true 
that  Dante  has  never  shrunk  from  embodying  his  conceptions 
in  determinate  words,  that  he  has  even  given  measure  and 
numbers,  where  Milton  would  have  left  his  images  to  float 
undefined  in  a gorgeous  haze  of  language.  Both  were 
right.  Milton  did  not  profess  to  have  been  in  heaven  or 
hell.  He  might  therefore  reasonably  confine  himself  to  mag- 
nificent generalities.  Far  different  was  the  office  of  the 
lonely  traveller,  who  had  wandered  through  the  nation  of 
the  dead.  Had  he  described  the  abode  of  the  rejected 
Bpirits  in  language  resembling  the  splendid  lines  of  the 
English  poet, — had  he  told  us  of — 

“ An  universe  of  death,  which  God  by  curse 
Created  evil,  for  evil  only  good, 

Where  all  life  dies,  death  lives,  and  Nature  breeds 
Perverse  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things. 

Abominable,  unutterable,  and  worse 

Than  fables  yet  have  feigned,  or  fear  conceived, 

Gorgons,  and  hydras,  and  chimeeras  dire,” — 

thii  wotdd  doubtlois  havg  been  nobk  writing.  But  wher^ 


CEITICISMS  OX  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  57 

would  liave  been  that  strong  impression  of  reality,  which, 
in  accordance  with  his  ])lan,  it  should  have  been  liis  great 
object  to  produce?  It  was  absolutely  necessary  for  him  to 
delineate  accurately  “ all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things,” 
— to  utter  what  might  to  others  appear  unutterable,” 
— to  relate  with  the  air  of  truth  what  fables  had  never 
feigned, — to  embody  what  fear  had  never  conceived.  And 
I will  frankly  confess  that  the  vague  sublimity  of  Milton 
affects  me  less  than  these  reviled  details  of  Dante.  Wo 
read  Milton  ; and  we  know  that  we  are  reading  a great  poet. 
When  we  read  Dante,  the  poet  vanishes.  We  are  listening 
to  the  man  who  has  returned  from  “ the  valley  of  the  dolor- 
ous abyss ; ” * — we  seem  to  see  the  dilated  eye  of  horror,  to 
hear  the  shuddering  accents  with  which  he  tells  his  fearful 
tale.  Considered  in  this  light,  the  narratives  are  exactly 
what  they  should  be, — definite  in  themselves,  but  suggesting 
to  the  mind  ideas  of  awful  and  indefinite  wonder.  They 
are  made  up  of  the  images  of  the  earth  : — they  are  told  in  the 
language  of  the  earth. — Yet  the  whole  effect  is,  beyond  ex- 
pression, wild  and  unearthly.  The  fact  is,  that  super- 
natural beings,  as  long  as  they  are  considered  merely  with 
reference  to  their  own  nature,  excite  our  feelings  very  feebly. 
It  is  wdien  the  great  gulf  which  separates  them  from  us  is 
passed,  when  w^e  suspect  some  strange  and  undefinable  rela- 
tion between  the  laws  of  the  visible  and  the  invisible  world, 
that  they  rouse,  perhaps,  the  strongest  emotions  of  which 
our  nature  is  capjable.  IIow  many  children,  and  how  many 
men,  are  afraid  of  ghosts,  who  are  not  afraid  of  God ! And 
this,  because,  though  they  entertain  a much  stronger  con- 
viction of  the  existence  of  a Deity  than  of  the  reality  of  ap- 
paritions, they  have  no  apprehension  that  he  will  manifest 
himself  to  them  in  any  sensible  manner.  While  this  is  the 
case,  to  describe  superhuman  beings  in  the  language,  and 
to  attribute  to  them  the  actions,  of  humanity  may  be  gro- 
tesque, unphilosophical,  inconsistent;  but  it  will  be  the 
only  mode  of  working  upon  the  feelings  of  men,  and,  there- 
fore, the  only  mode  suited  for  poetry.  Shakspeare  under- 
stood this  well,  as  he  understood  every  thing  that  belonged 
to  his  art.  Who  does  not  sympathize  with  the  rapture  of 
Ariel,  flying  after  sunset  on  the  wings  of  the  bat,  or  sucking 
in  the  cups  of  flowers  with  the  bee  ? Who  does  not  shudder 
at  the  caldron  of  Macbeth  ? Where  is  the  philosopher  who 
IS  not  moved  when  he  thinks  of  the  strange  connection  be- 

♦ “La  valle  d’  abisso  doloroso  ’’ — Inferno^  canto  iv. 


58 


MACAULAY MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tween  the  infernal  spirits  and  “ tlie  sow’s  Mood  that  hath 
eaten  lier  nine  farrow?”  Ihit  this  diflicult  task  of  rep- 
resenting su])ernatural  beings  to  our  minds,  in  a manner 
wliich  shall  be  neither  unintelligible  to  our  intellects,  nor 
wholly  inconsistent  with  our  ideas  of  their  nature,  has  never 
been  so  well  performed  as  by  Dante.  I will  refer  to  three 
instances,  which  are,  perhaps,  the  most  striking — the  descrip- 
tion of  the  transformations  of  the  serpents  and  the  rolibers, 
in  the  twenty-fifth  canto  of  the  Inferno, — the  passage  con- 
cerning Nimrod,  in  the  thirty-first  canto  of  the  same  part, 
— and  the  magnificent  procession  in  the  twenty-ninth  canto 
of  the  Purgatorio. 

The  metaphors  and  comparisons  of  Dante  harmonize  ad- 
mirably with  that  air  of  strong  reality  of  which  I have 
spoken.  They  have  a very  peculiar  character.  He  is  per- 
haps the  only  poet  whose  writings  would  become  much  less 
intelligible  if  all  illustrations  of  this  sort  were  expunged. 
His  similes  are  frequently  rather  those  of  a traveller  than 
of  a poet.  He  employs  them  not  to  display  his  ingenuity  by 
fanciful  analogies, — not  to  delight  the  reader  by  affording  him 
a distant  and  passing  glimpse  of  beautiful  images  remote 
from  the  j^ath  in  which  he  is  proceeding, — but  to  give  an 
exact  idea  of  the  objects  which  he  is  describing,  by  compar- 
ing them  with  others  generally  known.  The  boiling  pitch  in 
Malebolge  was  like  that  in  the  Venetian  arsenal: — the 
mound  on  which  he  travelled  along  the  banks  of  Phlegethon 
was  like  that  between  Ghent  and  Bruges,  but  not  so  large  : — 
the  cavities  where  the  Simoniacal  prelates  are  confined 
resembled  the  fonts  in  the  Church  of  John  at  Florence. 
Every  reader  of  Dante  will  recall  many  other  illustrations 
of  this  description,  which  add  to  the  appearance  of  sincerity 
and  earnestness  from  which  the  narrative  derives  so  much 
of  its  interest. 

Many  of  his  comparisons,  again,  are  intended  to  give  an 
exact  idea  of  his  feelings  under  particular  circumstances. 
The  delicate  shades  of  grief,  of  fear,  of  anger,  are  rarely 
discriminated  with  sufficient  accuracy  in  the  language  of  the 
most  refined  nations.  A rude  dialect  never  abounds  in  nice 
distinctions  of  this  kind.  Dante  therefore  employs  the  most 
accurate  and  infinitely  the  most  poetical  mode  of  marking  the 
precise  state  of  his  mind.  Every  person  who  has  experienced 
the  bewildering  effect  of  sudden  bad  tidings, — the  stupefac- 
tion,— the  vague  doubt  of  the  truth  of  our  own  perceptions 
which  they  produce, — v/ill  understand  the  following  simile  ’ 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  rRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  59 


— ‘‘I  was  as  he  is  who  dreameth  his  own  harm, — whO; 
dreaming,  wishes  that  it  may  be  all  a dream,  so  that  he  desires 
that  which  is  as  though  it  were  not.”  This  is  only  one  out 
of  a hundred  equally  striking  and  expressive  similitudes 
The  comparisons  of  Homer  and  Milton  are  magnificent 
digressions.  It  scarcely  injures  their  effect  to  detach  them 
from  tlie  work.  Those  of  Dante  are  very  different.  They 
derive  their  beauty  from  the  context,  and  reflect  beauty  upon 
it.  Ilis  embroidery  cannot  be  taken  out  without  spoiling  the 
whole  web.  I cannot  dismiss  this  part  of  the  subject  with- 
out advising  every  person  Avho  can  muster  sufticient  Italian 
to  read  the  simile  of  the  sheep,  in  the  third  canto  of  the  Pur- 
gatorio.  I think  it  the  most  perfect  passage  of  the  kind  in 
the  world,  the  most  imaginative,  the  most  picturesque,  and 
the  most  sweetly  expressed. 

No  person  can  have  attended  to  the  Divine  Comedy 
without  observing  how  little  impression  the  forms  of  the  ex- 
ternal world  appear  to  have  made  on  the  mind  of  Dante. 
His  temper  and  his  situation  had  led  him  to  fix  his  observation 
almost  exclusively  on  human  nature.  The  exquisite  opening 
of  the  eighth  * canto  of  the  Purgatorio  affords  a strong  in- 
stance of  this.  He  leaves  to  others  the  earth,  the  ocean,  and 
the  sky.  His  business  is  with  man.  To  other  writers, 
evening  may  be  the  season  of  dews  and  stars  and  radiant 
clouds.  To  Dante  it  is  the  hour  of  fond  recollection  and 
passionate  devotion, — the  hour  which  melts  the  heart  of  the 
niariner  and  kindles  the  love  of  the  pilgrim, — the  hour  when 
the  toll  of  the  bell  seems  to  mourn  for  another  day  which  is 
gone  and  will  return  no  more. 

The  feeling  of  the  present  age  has  taken  a direction 
diametrically  opposite.  The  magnificence  of  the  physical 
world,  and  its  influence  upon  the  human  mind,  have  been  the 
favorite  themes  of  our  most  eminent  poets.  The  herd  of 
blue-stocking  ladies  and  sonneteering  gentlemen  seem  to  com 
Bider  a strong  sensibility  to  the  ‘‘  splendor  of  the  grass,  the 

* I cannot  help  observing  that  Gray’s  imitation  of  that  noble  line 
“ Che  paia  ’1  giorno  pianger  che  si  muore,” 

Is  one  of  the  most  striking  instances  of  injudicious  plagiarism  with  which  T am 
acquainted.  Dante  did  not  put  this  strong  personification  at  the  beginning  of  his 
description.  The  imagination  of  the  reader  is  so  well  prepared  for  it  by  the  pre- 
vious lines,  that  it  appears  perfectly  natural  and  pathetic.  Placed  as 'Gray  has 
placed  it,  neither  preceded  nor  followed  by  any  thing  that  harmonizes  with  it,  it 
becomes  a frigid  conceit.  Woe  to  the  unskilful  rider  who  ventures  on  the  horses 
of  A ihilles. 

ot  5’  aAeyetvol 

dvSpdat  ye  ^v7}TOt(rL  SaixrjixevaL  o^eecr^^at, 
y tj  t'ov  d^avdrrj  tckc 


60  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

glory  of  tlie  flower,”  as  an  ingredient  absolutely  indispeiv 
sable  in  the  formation  of  a poetical  mind.  They  treat  with 
contempt  all  writers  who  are  unfortunately 

nec  ponere  luciim 

Artifices,  nec  rus  saturum  laudare. 

The  orthodox  poetical  creed  is  more  Catholic.  The  noblest 
earthly  object  of  the  contemj)lation  of  man  is  man  himself. 
The  universe,  and  all  its  fair  and  glorious  forms,  are  indeed 
included  in  the  wide  empire  of  the  imagination  ; but  she 
has  placed  her  home  and  her  sanctuary  amidst  the  inexhaus- 
tible varieties  and  the  impenetrable  mysteries  of  the  mind. 

In  tiitte  parti  impera,  e qnivi  regge  ; 

Quivi  e la  sua  cittade,  e V alto  seggio.* 

Othello  is  perhaps  the  greatest  work  in  the  world.  From 
what  does  it  derive  its  power?  From  the  clouds?  From 
the  ocean  ? F rom  the  mountains  ? Or  from  love  strong  as 
death,  and  jealousy  cruel  as  the  grave!  What  is  it  that 
we  go  forth  to  see  in  Hamlet?  Is  it  a reed  shaken  with  the 
wind?  A small  celandine?  A bed  of  daffodils?  Or  is 
it  to  contemplate  a mighty  and  w^ayw^ard  mind  laid  bare 
before  us  to  the  inmost  recesses?  It  may  perhaps  be 
doubted  whether  the  lakes  and  the  hills  are  better  fitted 
for  the  education  of  a poet  than  the  dusky  streets  of  a huge 
capital.  Indeed  who  is  not  tired  to  death  with  pure  de- 
scription of  scenery  ? Is  it  not  the  fact,  that  external  objects 
never  strongly  excite  our  feelings  but  w^hen  they  are  con- 
templated in  reference  to  man,  as  illustrating  his  destiny,  or 
as  influencing  his  character?  The  most  beautiful  object 
in  the  world,  it  wdll  be  allow^ed,  is  a beautiful  w^oman. 
But  who  that  can  analyze  his  feelings  is  not  sensible  that 
she  owes  her  fascination  less  to  grace  of  outline  and  deli- 
cacy of  color,  than  to  a thousand  associations  w^hich,  often 
unperceived  by  ourselves,  connect  those  qualities  wdth  the 
source  of  our  existence,  with  the  nourishment  of  our  in- 
fancy, with  the  passions  of  our  youth,  with  the  hopes  of  our 
age,  wdth  elegance,  Avith  vivacity,  with  tenderness,  Avith  the 
strongest  of  natural  instincts,  with  the  dearest  of  social  ties  ? 

To  those  w^ho  think  thus,  the  insensibility  of  the  Floren- 
tine poet  to  the  beauties  of  nature  Avill  not  appear  an  un- 
pardonable  deficiency.  On  mankind  no  Avriter,  Avith  the 
exception  of  Shakspeare,  has  looked  with  a more  penetrating 
eye.  I haA^e  said  that  his  poetical  character  had  deriA^ed  a 
tinge  from  his  peculiar  temper.  It  is  on  the  sterner  and 

* Iijf erno,  canto  i. 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  miNCIx^AE  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  61 

darker  passions  that  he  delights  to  dwell.  All  love,  except- 
ing the  half  mystic  passion  which  he  still  felt  for  his  buried 
Beatrice,  had  palled  on  the  fierce  and  restless  exile.  The 
sad  story  of  Rimini  is  almost  a single  excej)tion.  I know  not 
whether  it  has  been  remarked,  that,  in  one  point,  misanthropy 
seems  to  have  affected  his  mind  as  it  did  that  of  Swift. 
Nauseous  and  revolting  images  seem  to  have  had  a fasci- 
nation for  his  mind ; and  he  repeatedly  places  before  his 
readers,  with  all  the  energy  of  his  incomparable  style,  the 
most  loathsome  objects  of  the  sewer  and  the  dissecting-room. 

There  is  another  peculiarity  in  the  poem  of  Dante,  which, 
I think,  deserves  notice.  Ancient  mythology  has  hardly 
ever  been  successfully  interwoven  with  modern  poetry.  One 
class  of  writers  have  introduced  the  fabulous  deities  merely 
as  allegorical  representatives  of  love,  wine,  or  wisdom. 
This  necessarily  renders  their  works  tame  and  cold.  We 
may  sometimes  admire  their  ingenuity  ; but  with  what  in- 
terest can  we  read  of  beings  of  whose  personal  existence  the 
writer  does  not  suffer  us  to  entertain,  for  a moment,  even  a 
conventional  belief?  Even  Spenser’s  allegory  is  scarcely 
tolerable,  till  w”e  contrive  to  forget  that  Una  signifies  in- 
nocence, and  consider  her  merely  as  an  oppressed  lady  under 
the  protection  of  a generous  knight. 

Those  writers  who  have,  more  judiciously,  attempted 
to  preserve  the  personality  of  the  classical  divinities  have 
failed  from  a different  cause.  They  have  been  imitators, 
and  imitators  at  a disadvantage.  Euripides  and  Catullus 
believed  in  Bacchus  and  Cybele  as  little  as  we  do.  But 
they  lived  among  men  who  did.  Their  imaginations,  if 
not  their  opinions,  took  the  color  of  the  age.  Hence  the 
glorious  inspiration  of  the  Bacchse  and  the  Atys.  Our 
minds  are  formed  by  circumstances  : and  I do  not  believe 
that  it  would  be  in  the  power  of  the  greatest  modern  poet 
to  lash  himself  up  to  a degree  of  enthusiasm  adequate  to 
the  production  of  such  works. 

Dante  alone,  among  the  poets  of  later  times,  has  been, 
in  this  respect,  neither  an  allegorist  nor  an  imitator ; and, 
consequently,  he  alone  has  introduced  the  ancient  fictions 
with  effect.  His  Minos,  his  Charon,  his  Pluto,  are  abso- 
lutely terrific.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  or  original 
than  the  use  which  he  has  made  of  the  river  of  Lethe.  He 
has  never  assigned  to  his  mythological  characters  any  func- 
tions inconsistent  with  the  creed  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
He  has  related  ROthing  concerning  them  which  a good 


62 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Christian  of  tliat  age  might  not  believe  possible;.  On  this 
account,  there  is  nothing  in  these  passages  that  a})pears 
puerile  or  pedantic.  On  the  contrary,  tliis  singular  use  of 
classical  names  suggests  to  the  mind  a vague  and  awful  idea 
of  some  mysterious  revelation,  anterior  to  all  recorded  his- 
tory, of  whicli  the  dispersed  fragments  might  have  been 
retained  amidst  the  impostures  and  superstitions  of  later 
religions.  Indeed  the  mythology  of  the  Divine  Comedy  is 
of  the  elder  and  more  colossal  mould.  It  breathes  the  spirit 
of  Homer  and  -^schylus,  not  of  Ovid  and  Claudian. 

This  is  the  more  extraordinary,  since  Dante  seems  to 
have  been  utterly  ignorant  of  the  Greek  language  ; and  his 
favorite  Latin  models  could  only  have  served  to  mislead 
him..  Indeed,  it  is  impossible  not  to  remark  his  admiration 
of  writers  far  inferior  to  himself;  and,  in  particular,  his 
idolatry  of  Virgil,  who,  elegant  and  splendid  as  he  is,  has 
no  pretensions  to  the  depth  and  originality  of  mind  which 
characterize  his  Tuscan  worshipper.  In  truth,  it  may  be 
laid  down  as  an  almost  universal  rule  that  good  poets  are 
bad  critics.  Their  minds  are  under  the  tyranny  of  ten 
thousand  associations  imperceptible  to  others.  The  worst 
writer  may  easily  happen  to  touch  a spring  which  is  con- 
nected in  their  minds  with  a long  succession  of  beautiful 
images.  They  are  like  the  gigantic  slaves  of  Aladdin,  gifted 
with  matchless  power,  but  bound  by  spells  so  mighty  that 
when  a child  whom  they  could  have  crushed  touched  a talis- 
man, of  whose  secret  he  was  ignorant,  they  immediately  be- 
came his  vassals.  It  has  more  than  once  happened  to  me 
to  see  minds,  graceful  and  majestic  as  the  Titania  of  Shak- 
speare,  bewitched  by  the  charms  of  an  ass’s  head,  bestowing 
on  it  the  fondest  caresses,  and  crowning  it  with  the  sweetest 
flowers.  I need  only  mention  the  poems  attributed  to  Ossian. 
They  are  utterly  worthless,  except  as  an  edifying  instance  of 
the  success  of  a story  without  evidence,  and  of  a book  wdthout 
merit.  They  are  a chaos  of  words  which  present  no  image, 
of  images  which  have  no  archetype  : — they  are  without  form 
and  void  ; and  darkness  is  upon  the  face  of  them.  Yet  how 
many  men  of  genius  have  panegyrized  and  imitated  them ! 

The  style  of  Dante  is,  if  not  his  highest,  perhaps  his  most 
peculiar  excellence.  I know  nothing  with,  which  it  can  be 
compared.  The  noblest  models  of  Greek  composition  must 
yield  to  it.  His  words  are  the  fewest  and  the  l)est  which  it 
is  possible  to  use.  The  first  expression  in  whicli  he  clothes 
his  thoughts  is  always  so  energetic  and  comprehensive  that 


CRITICISMS  OK  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  63 

amplification  would  only  in  j ure  the  effect.  There  is  probably 
no  writer  in  any  language  who  has  presented  so  many  strong 
pictures  to  the  mind.  Yet  there  is  probably  no  writer 
equally  concise.  This  perfection  of  style  is  the  principal 
merit  of  the  Paradiso,  which,  as  I have  already  remarked, 
is  by  no  means  equal  in  other  respects  to  the  two  preceding 
parts  of  the  poem.  The  force  and  felicity  of  the  diction, 
however,  irresistibly  attract  the  reader  through  the  theo- 
logical lectures  and  the  sketches  of  ecclesiastical  biography 
with  which  this  division  of  the  work  too  much  abounds.  It 
may  seem  almost  absurd  to  quote  particular  specimens  of 
an  excellence  which  is  diffused  over  all  his  hundred  cantos. 
I will,  however,  instance  the  third  canto  of  the  Inferno,  and 
the  sixth  of  the  Purgatorio,  as  passages  incomparable  in 
their  kind.  The  merit  of  the  latter  is,  perhaps,  rather 
oratorical  than  poetical ; nor  can  I recollect  any  thing  in  the 
great  Athenian  speeches  which  equals  it  in  force  of  invective 
and  bitterness  of  sarcasm.  I have  heard  the  most  eloquent 
statesmen  of  the  age  remark  that,  next  to  Demosthenes, 
Dante  is  the  writer  who  ought  to  be  most  attentively  studied 
by  every  man  who  desires  to  attain  oratorical  eminence. 

But  it  is  time  to  close  this  feeble  and  rambling  critique. 
I cannot  refrain,  however,  from  saying  a few  words  upon 
the  translations  of  the  Divine  Comedy.  Boyd’s  is  as  tedious 
and  languid  as  the  original  is  rapid  and  forcible.  The 
strange  measure  wliich  he  has  chosen,  and,  for  aught  I know, 
invented,  is  most  unfit  for  such  a work.  lh\anslations  ought 
never  to  be  written  in  a verse  which  requires  much  com- 
mand of  rhyme.  The  stanza  becomes  a bed  of  Procrustes ; 
and  the  thoughts  of  the  unfortunate  author  are  alternately 
racked  and  curtailed  to  fit  their  new  receptacle.  The  abrupt 
and  yet  consecutive  style  of  Dante  suffers  more  than  that  of 
any  other  poet  by  a version  diffuse  in  style,  and  divided  into 
paragraphs,  for  they  deserve  no  other  name,  of  equal  length. 

Nothing  can  be  said  in  favor  of  Hay  ley’s  attempt,  but 
that  it  is  better  than  Boyd’s.  His  mind  was  a tolerable 
specimen  of  filagree  work, — rather  elegant,  and  very  feeble. 
All  that  can  be  said  for  his  best  works  is  that  they  are  neat. 
All  that  can  be  said  against  his  worst  is  that  they  are  stupid. 
He  might  liave  translated  Metastasio  tolerably,  But  he  was 
utterly  unable  to  do  justice  to  the 

“ rime  e aspre  e cliiocce, 

Come  si  converrebbe  al  tristo  buco.**  * 


♦ Iiitoriio,  canto  xxxii. 


G4  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

I turn  witli  pleasure  from  tliese  wretched  j)crrorraai)ce8 
to  Mr.  C.iry’s  translation.  It  is  a work  which  well  deserves 
a separate  discussion,  and  on  which,  if  this  article  were  not 
already  too  long,  I could  dwell  with  great  })leasure.  At 
present  I will  only  say  that  there  is  no  other  version  in  the 
world,  as  far  as  I know,  so  faithful,  yet  that  there  is  no 
other  version  whicli  so  fully  proves  that  the  translator  is 
himself  a man  of  poetical  genius.  Those  who  are  ignorant 
of  the  Italian  language  should  read  it  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  Divine  Comedy.  Those  who  are  most  intimate 
with  Italian  literature  should  read  it  for  its  original  merits  : 
and  I believe  that  they  will  find  it  difficult  to  determine 
whether  the  author  deserves  most  praise  for  his  intimacy 
with  the  language  of  Dante,  or  for  his  extraordinary  masiery 
over  his  own. 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN 
WRITERS. 

{Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine,  April,  1824.) 

No.  II.  PETRARCH. 

Et  VOS,  o lauri,  carpam,  et  te,  proxima  myrte, 

Sic  positae  quouiam  suaves  miscetis  odores.  Virgil. 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  name  a writer  whose  celebrity, 
when  both  its  extent  and  its  duration  are  taken  into  the  ac- 
count, can  be  considered  as  equal  to  that  of  Petrarch.  Four 
centuries  and  a half  have  elapsed  since  his  death.  Yet  still 
the  inhabitants  of  every  nation  throughout  the  western 
world  are  as  familiar  with  his  character  and  his  adventures 
as  with  the  most  illustrious  names,  and  the  most  recent  anec- 
dotes, of  their  own  literary  history.  This  is  indeed  a rare 
distinction.  His  detractors  must  acknowledge  that  it  could 
not  have  been  acquired  by  a poet  destitute  of  merit.  His 
admirers  will  scarcely  maintain  that  the  unassisted  merit  of 
Petrarch  could  have  raised  him  to  that  eminence  which  has 
not  yet  been  attained  by  Shakspeare,  Milton,  or  Dante,-— 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PIUNCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITRRS.  6i> 


that  eminence,  of  which  perhaps  no  modern  writer,  except- 
ing himself  and  Cervantes,  has  long  retained  possession, — 
an  European  ’reputation. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  discover  some  of  the  causes  to  which 
this  great  man  has  ow’ed  a celebrity,  which  I cannot  but 
think  disproportioned  to  his  real  claims  on  the  admiration 
of  mankind.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  an  egotist.  Egotism 
in  conversation  is  universally  abhorred.  Lovers,  and,  I be- 
lieve, lovers  alone,  pardon  it  in  each  other.  'No  services,  no 
talents,  no  j)Owers  of  pleasing,  render  it  endurable.  Grati- 
tude, admiration,  interest,  fear,  scarcely  prevent  those  who 
are  condemned  to  listen  to  it  from  indicating  their  disgust 
and  fatigue.  The  childless  uncle,  the  powerful  patron,  can 
scarcely  extort  this  compliance.  We  leave  the  inside  of  the 
mail  ill  a storm,  and  mount  the  box,  rather  than  hear  the 
history  of  our  companion.  The  chaplain  bites  his  lips  in  the 
presence  of  the  archbishop.  The  midshipman  yawns  at  the 
table  of  the  First  Lord.  Yet,  from  whatever  cause,  this 
practice,  the  pest  of  conversation,  gives  to  wu-iting  a zest 
which  nothing  else  can  impart.  Rousseau  made  the  boldest 
experiment  of  this  kind;  and  it  fully  succeeded.  In  our 
owm  time  Lord  Byron,  by  a series  of  attempts  of  the  same 
nature,  made  himself  tlie  object  of  general  interest  and  ad- 
miration. Wordsworth  wu’ote  with  egotism  more  intense, 
but  less  obvious ; and  he  has  been  rewarded  with  a sect  of 
W’orshippers,  comparatively  small  in  number,  but  far  more 
enthusiastic  in  ttieir  devotion.  It  is  needless  to  multiply 
instances.  Even  now  all  the  w^alks  of  literature  are  infested 
with  mendicants  for  fame,  who  attempt  to  excite  our  interest 
by  exhibiting  all  the  distortions  of  their  intellects,  and  strip- 
ping the  covering  from  all  the  putrid  sores  of  their  feelings. 
Nor  are  there  w’anting  many  who  push  their  imitation  of  the 
beggars  whom  they  resemble  a step  further,  and  who  find  it 
easier  to  extort  a pittance  from  the  spectator,  by*  simulating 
deformity  and  debility  from  w hich  they  are  exempt,  than 
by  such  honest  labor  as  their  health  and  strength  enable 
them  to  perform.  In  the  mean  time  the  credulous  public 
pities  and  pampers  a nuisance  wdnch  requires  only  the  tread- 
mill and  the  wffiip.  This  art,  often  successful  when  em- 
ployed by  dunces,  gives  irresistible  fascination  to  w’orks 
which  possess  intrinsic  merit.  W e are  always  desirous  to 
know  something  of  the  character  and  situation  of  those 
whose  writings  w^e  have  perused  with  pleasure.  The  pas- 
eages  in  w’hich  Milton  has  alluded  to  his  own  circumstances 
Yol  I — 5 


66 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


are  j cr]in])s  road  more  frequently,  and  witli  more  interest, 
than  any  other  lines  in  liis  poems.  It  is  amusing  to  observe 
with  what  labor  critics  have  attemj)ted  to  glean  from  the 
j^oems  of  Homer  some  hints  as  to  liis  situation  and  ieelings. 
According  to  one  hy])othesis,  he  intended  to  describe  Irm- 
iself  under  tlie  name  of  Demodocus.  Otliers  maintain  tliat 
he  was  tlie  identical  Phemius  whose  life  Ulysses  spared. 
This  propensity  of  the  human  mind  exjdains,  I think,  in  a 
great  degree,  the  extensive  popularity  of  a poet  whose  works 
are  little  else  than  the  expression  of  his  personal  feelings. 

In  the  second  place,  Petrarch  was  not  only  an  egotist, 
but  an  amatory  egotist.  The  hopes  and  fears,  the  joys  and 
sorrows,  wdiich  he  described,  were  derived  from  the  passion 
which  of  all  passions  exerts  the  widest  influence,  and  which 
of  all  passions  borrow^s  most  from  the  imagination.  lie  had 
also  another  immense  advantage.  lie  was  the  first  eminent 
amatory  poet  who  appeared  after  the  great  convulsion  which 
had  changed,  not  only  the  political,  but  the  moral,  state 
of  the  world.  The  Greeks,  who,  in  their  public  institu- 
tions and  their  literary  tastes,  w^ere  diametrically  opposed  to 
the  oriental  nations,  bore  a considerable  resemblance  to 
those  nations  in  their  domestic  habits.  Like  them,  they  de- 
spised the  intellects  and  immured  the  persons  of  their  w^o- 
men  ; and  it  was  among  the  least  of  the  frightful  evils  to 
wdiich  this  pernicious  system  gave  birth,  that  all  the  accom- 
plishments of  mind,  and  all  the  fascinations  of  manner,  which, 
in  a highly-cultivated  age,  wdll  generally  be  necessary  to 
attach  men  to  their  female  associates,  w'ere  monopolized  by 
the  Phrynes  and  the  Lamias.  The  indispensable  ingredients 
of  honorable  and  chivalrous  love  w^ere  nowhere  to  be  found 
jinited.  The  matrons  and  their  daughters,  confined  in  the 
harem, — insipid,  uneducated,  ignorant  of  all  but  the  mechan- 
ical arts,  scarcely  seen  till  they  w^ere  married, — could  rarely 
excite  interest;  wdiile  their  brilliant  rivals,  half  graces,  half 
harpies,  elegant  and  informed,  but  fickle  and  rapacious, 
could  never  inspire  respect. 

The  state  of  society  in  Rome  was,  in  this  point,  far  hap- 
pier ; and  the  Latin  literature  partook  of  the  superiority. 
The  Roman  poets  have  decidedly  surpassed  those  of  Greece 
in  the  delineation  of  the  passion  of  love.  There  is  no  sub- 
ject which  they  have  treated  with  so  much  success.  Ovid, 
Catullus,  Tibullus,  Horace,  and  Propertius,  in  spite  of  all 
their  faults,  must  be  allow-ed  to  rank  high  in  this  department 
of  the  art.  To  these  I would  add  my  favorite  Plautus  ; who 


^BITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  67 

though  he  took  his  plot  from  Greece,  found,  I suspect,  the 
originals  of  his  enchanting  female  characters  at  Rome. 

Still  many  evils  remained  ; and,  in  the  decline  of  the 
great  empire,  all  that  was  pernicious  in  its  domestic  institu- 
tions appeared  more  strongly.  Under  the  influence  of 
governments  at  once  dependent  and  tyrannical,  which  pur- 
chased, by  cringingto  their  enemies,  the  power  of  trampling 
on  their  subjects,  the  Romans  sunk  into  the  lowest  state  of 
effeminacy  and  debasement.  Falsehood,  cowardice,  sloth, 
conscious  and  unrepining  degradation,  formed  the  national 
character.  Such  a character  is  totally  incompatible  with 
the  stronger  passion.  Love,  in  particular,  which  in  tlie 
modern  sense  of  the  word,  implies  protection  and  devotion 
on  the  one  side,  confidence  on  the  other,  respect  and  fidelity 
on  both,  could  not  exist  among  the  sluggish  and  heartless 
slaves  who  cringed  around  the  thrones  of  Honorius  and 
Augustulus.  At  this  period  the  great  renovation  com- 
menced. The  warriors  of  the  north,  destitute  as  they  were  of 
knowledge  and  humanity,  brought  with  them,  from  their 
forests  and  marshes,  those  qualities  without  which  humanity 
is  a weakness,  and  knowledge  a curse, — energy — indepen- 
dence— the  dread  of  shame — the  contempt  of  danger.  It 
would  be  most  interesting  to  examine  the  manner  in  which 
the  admixture  of  the  savage  conqueror  and  the  effeminate 
slaves,  after  many  generations  of  darkness  and  agitation,  pro- 
duced the  modern  European  character ; — to  trace  back,  from 
the  first  conflict  to  the  final  amalgamation,  the  operation  of 
that  mysterious  alchemy,  which,  from  hostile  and  worthless 
elements,  has  extracted  the  pure  gold  of  human  nature — to 
analyze  the  mass,  and  to  determine  the  proportion  in  which 
the  ingredients  are  mingled.  But  I will  confine  myself  to 
the  subject  to  which  I have  more  particularly  referred. 
The  nature  of  the  passion  of  love  had  undergone  a complete 
change.  It  still  retained,  indeed,  the  fanciful  and  volup* 
tuous  character  which  it  had  possessed  among  the  southern 
nations  of  antiquity.  But  it  was  tinged  with  the  supersti- 
tious veneration  with  which  the  northern  warriors  had  been 
accustomed  to  regard  women.  Devotion  and  war  had  im- 
parted to  it  their  most  solemn  and  animating  feelings.  It 
was  sanctified  by  the  blessings  of  the  Church,  and  decorated 
with  the  wreaths  of  the  tournament.  Venus,  as  in  the 
ancient  fable,  was  again  rising  above  the  dark  and  tempes- 
tuous waves  which  had  so  long  covered  her  beauty.  But  she 
rose  not  now,  as  of  old,  in  exposed  and  luxurious  loveliness. 


68 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WIUTINGS. 


She  still  wore  the  cestus  of  her  ancient  witchcraft  ; hut  the 
diadem  of  Juno  was  on  her  brow,  and  the  aegis  of  Pallas  in 
her  hands.  Love  might,  in  fact,  be  called  a new  j)assion  ; 
and  it  is  not  astonishing  that  the  first  poet  of  eminence  who 
wholly  devoted  his  genius  to  this  theme  should  have  excited 
an  extraordinary  sensation.  He  may  be  compared  to  an 
adventurer  who  accidentally  lands  in  a rich  and  unknown 
island;  and  who,  though  he  mjfy  only  set  up  an  ill-shaj^ed 
cross  upon  the  shore,  acquires  possession  of  its  treasures, 
and  gives  it  his  name.  The  claim  of  Petrarch  was  indeed 
somewhat  like  that  of  Amerigo  Vespucci  to  the  continent 
which  should  have  derived  its  appellation  from  Columbus. 
The  Proven9al  poets  were  unquestionably  the  masters  of  the 
Florentine.  But  they  wrote  in  an  age  which  could  not  ap- 
preciate their  merits ; and  their  imitator  lived  at  the  very 
period  when  composition  in  the  vernacular  language  began 
to  attract  general  attention.  Petrarch  was  in  literature 
what  a Valentine  is  in  love.  The  public  preferred  him,  not 
because  his  merits  were  of  a transcendent  order,  but  because 
he  was  the  first  person  whom  they  saw  after  they  awoke 
from  their  long  sleep. 

Nor  did  Petrarch  gain  less  by  comparison  with  his  im- 
mediate successors  than  with  those  who  had  preceded  him. 
Till  more  than  a century  after  his  death  Italy  produced  no 
poet  who  could  be  compared  to  him.  This  decay  of  genius 
is  doubtless  to  be  ascribed,  in  a great  measure,  to  the  influ- 
ence which  his  own  works  had  exercised  u[on  the  literature 
of  his  country.  Yet  it  has  conduced  much  to  his  fame. 
Nothing  is  more  favorable  to  the  reputation  of  a writer  than 
to  be  succeeded  by  a race  inferior  to  himself  ; and  it  is  an 
advantage,  from  obvious  causes,  much  more  frequently  en- 
joyed by  those  who  corrupt  the  national  taste  than  by  those 
who  improve  it. 

Another  cause  has  co-operated  with  those  which  I have 
mentioned  to  spread  the  renown  of  Petrarch.  I mean  the 
interest  which  is  inspired  by  the  events  of  his  life — an  in- 
terest which  must  have  been  strongly  felt  by  his  contem- 
poraries, since,  after  an  interval  of  five  hundred  years,  no 
critic  can  be  wholly  exempt  from  its  influence.  Among 
the  great  men  to  whom  we  owe  the  resuscitation  of  science 
he  deserves  the  foremost  place ; and  his  enthusiastic  attach- 
ment to  this  great  cause  constitutes  his  most  just  and  splen- 
did title  to  the  gratitude  of  posterity.  He  was  the  votary 
of  literature.  He  loved  it  with  a perfect  love.  He  wor* 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  69 

shipped  it  with  an  almost  fanatical  devotion.  lie  was  the 
missionary,  who  proclaimed  its  discoveries  to  distant  coun- 
tries— the  pilgrim,  who  travelled  far  and  wide  to  collect  its 
reliques — the  hermit,  who  retired  to  seclusion  to  meditate 
on  its  beauties — the  champion,  wdio  fought  its  battles — the 
conqueror,  w^ho,  in  more  than  a metaphorical  sense,  led  bar- 
barism and  ignorance  in  triumph,  and  received  in  the  cap- 
itol  the  laurel  which  his  magnificent  victory  had  earned. 

Nothing  can  be  conceived  more  noble  or  affecting  than 
that  ceremony.  The  superb  palaces  and  porticoes,  by  which 
had  rolled  the  ivory  chariots  of  Marius  and  Caesar,  had  long 
mouldered  into  dust.  The  laurelled  fasces — the  golden 
eagles — the  shouting  legions — the  captives  and  the  pictured 
cities — were  indeed  wanting  to  his  victorious  procession. 
The  sceptre  had  passed  away  from  Rome.  But  she  still  re- 
tained the  mightier  influence  of  an  intellectual  empire,  and 
was  now  to  confer  the  prouder  reward  of  an  intellectual 
triumph.  To  the  man  who  had  extended  the  dominion  of 
her  ancient  language  — who  had  erected  the  trophies  of 
philosophy  and  imagination  in  the  haunts  of  ignorance  and 
ferocity — whose  captives  were  the  hearts  of  admiring  nations 
enchained  by  the  influence  of  his  song — whose  spoils  w^ere 
the  treasures  of  ancient  genius  rescued  from  obscurity  and 
decay — the  Eternal  City  offered  the  just  and  glorious  tribute 
of  her  gratitude.  Amidst  the  ruined  monuments  of  ancient 
and  the  infant  erections  of  modern  art,  he  who  had  restored 
the  broken  link  between  the  two  ages  of  human  civilization 
was  crowned  with  the  wweath  which  he  had  deserved  from 
the  moderns  who  ow^ed  to  him  their  refinement — from  the 
ancients  who  owed  to  him  their  fame.  Never  was  a coro- 
nation so  august  witnessed  by  Westminster  or  by  Rheims. 

When  we  turn  from  this  glorious  spectacle  to  the  j^rivate 
chamber  of  the  poet, — when  we  contemplate  the  struggle  of 
passion  and  virtue, — the  eye  dimmed,  the  cheek  furrowed, 
by  the  tears  of  sinful  and  hopeless  desire, — when  we  reflect 
on  the  whole  history  of  his  attachment,  from  the  gay  fantasy 
of  his  youth  to  the  lingering  despair  of  his  age,  pity  and 
affection  mingle  with  our  admiration.  Even  after  death  had 
placed  the  last  seal  on  his  misery,  we  see  him  devoting  to  the 
cause  of  the  human  mind  all  the  strength  and  energy  which 
love  and  sorrow  had  spared.  He  lived  the  apostle  of  litera* 
ture ; — he  fell  its  martyr  : — he  was  found  dead  with  his  head 
reclined  on  a book. 

Those  who  have  studied  the  life  and  writings  of  Petrarch 


70  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  weitings, 

with  attention,  will  perhaps  be  inclined  to  make  some  de- 
ductions from  this  panegyric.  It  cannot  be  denied  tliat 
his  merits  were  disfigured  by  a most  uii})leasant  affectation. 
Ilis  zeal  for  literature  communicated  a tinge  of  pedantry  to 
all  his  feelings  and  opinions.  Ilis  love  was  the  love  of  a 
sonneteer : — liis  patriotism  was  the  patriotism  of  an  antiqua- 
rian. The  interest  with  whicli  we  contemplate  the  works, 
and  study  the  history,  of  those  who,  in  former  ages,  have 
occupied  our  country,  arises  from  the  associations  which 
connect  them  with  the  community  in  which  arc  comj)riscd  all 
the  objects  of  our  affection  and  our  hope.  In  the  mind  of 
Petrarch  these  feelings  were  reversed.  He  loved  Italy,  be- 
cause it  abounded  with  the  monuments  of  the  ancient  masters 
of  the  world.  His  native  city — the  fair  and  glorious  Florence 
— the  modern  Athens,  then  in  all  the  bloom  and  strength  of 
its  youth,  could  not  obtain,  from  the  most  distinguished  of 
its  citizens,  any  portion  of  that  passionate  homage  which  he 
paid  to  the  decrepitude  of  Rome.  These  and  many  other 
blemishes,  though  they  must  in  candor  be  acknowledged, 
can  but  in  a very  slight  degree  diminish  the  glory  of  his 
career.  For  my  own  part,  I look  upon  it  with  so  much  fond- 
ness and  pleasure  that  I feel  reluctant  to  turn  from  it  to  the 
consideration  of  his  works,  which  I by  no  means  contemplate 
with  equal  admiration. 

Nevertheless,  I think  highly  of  the  poetical  powers  of 
Petrarch.  He  did  not  possess,  indeed,  the  art  of  strongly 
presenting  sensible  objects  to  the  imagination  ; — and  this  is 
the  more  remarkable,  because  the  talent  of  which  I speak  is 
that  which  peculiarly  distinguishes  the  Italian  poets.  In  the 
Divine  Comedy  it  is  displayed  in  its  highest  perfection.  It 
characterizes  almost  every  celebrated  poem  in  tlie  language. 
Perhaps  this  is  to  be  attributed  to  the  circumstance  that  paint- 
ing and  sculpture  had  attained  a high  degree  of  excellence 
in  Italy  before  poetry  had  been  extensively  cultivated.  Men 
W'cre  debarred  from  books,  but  accustomed  from  childhood 
to  contemplate  the  admirable  works  of  art,  w^hich,  even  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  Italy  began  to  produce.  Hence  their 
imaginations  received  so  strong  a bias  that,  even  in  their 
writings,  a taste  for  graphic  delineation  is  discernible.  The 
progress  of  things  in  England  has  been  in  all  respects  differ- 
ent. The  consequence  is,  that  English  historical  pictures 
are  poems  on  canvas ; wdiile  Italian  poems  are  pictures 
painted  to  the  mind  by  means  of  wmrds.  Of  tliis  national 
characteristic  the  writings  of  Petrarch  are  almost  totally 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  71 

destitute.  Ills  sonnets  indeed,  from  their  subject  and  nature, 
and  liis  Latin  })oenis,  from  the  restraints  which  always  shackle 
one  who  writes  in  a dead  language,  cannot  fairly  be  received 
in  evidence.  But  his  Triumphs  absolutely  required  the  ex- 
ercise of  this  talent,  and  exhibit  no  indications  of  it. 

Genius,  however,  he  certainly  possessed,  and  genius  of  a 
h gh  order.  His  ardent,  tender,  and  magnificent  turn  of 
thought,  his  brilliant  fancy,  his  command  of  expression,  at 
once  forcible  and  elegant,  must  be  acknowledged.  Nature 
meant  him  for  the  prince  of  lyric  writers.  But  by  one  fatal 
present  she  deprived  her  other  gifts  of  half  their  value.  He 
would  have  been  a much  greater  poet  had  he  been  a less  clever 
man.  His  ingenuity  was  the  bane  of  his  mind.  He  abandoned 
the  noble  and  natural  style,  in  which  he  might  have  excelled, 
for  the  conceits  which  he  produced  with  a facility  at  once 
admirable  and  disgusting.  His  muse,  like  the  Roman  lady  in 
Livy,  was  tempted  by  gaudy  ornaments  to  betray  the  fast- 
nesses of  her  strength,  and,  like  her,  was  crushed  beneath  the 
glittering  bribes  which  had  seduced  her. 

The  paucity  of  his  thoughts  is  very  remarkable.  It  is 
impossible  to  look  without  amazement  on  a mind  so  fertile 
in  combinations,  yet  so  barren  of  images.  Ilis  amatory 
poetry  is  wholly  made  up  of  a very  few  topics,  disposed  in 
so  many  orders,  and  exhibited  in  so  many  lights,  that  it  re- 
minds us  of  those  arithmetical  problems  about  permutations, 
which  so  much  astonish  the  unlearned.  The  French  cook, 
who  boasted  that  he  could  make  fifteen  different  dishes  out 
of  a nettle-top,  was  not  a greater  master  of  his  art.  The 
mind  of  Petrarch  was  a kaleidoscope.  At  every  turn  it  pre- 
sents us  with  new  forms,  always  fantastic,  occasionally 
beautiful ; and  Ave  can  scarcely  believe  that  all  these  varieties 
have  been  produced  by  the  same  worthless  fragments  of 
glass.  The  sameness  of  his  images  is,  indeed,  in  some  degree, 
to  be  attributed  to  the  sameness  of  his  subject.  It  would 
be  unreasonable  to  expect  perpetual  variety  from  so  many 
hundred  compositions,  all  of  the  same  length,  all  in  the  same 
measure,  and  all  addressed  to  the  same  insipid  and  heartless 
coquette.  I cannot  but  suspect  also  that  the  perverted  taste, 
which  is  the  blemish  of  his  amatory  verses,  was  to  be  attrib- 
uted to  the  influence  of  Laura,  Avho  probably,  like  most  critics 
of  her  sex,  preferred  a gaudy  to  a majestic  style.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  he  no  sooner  changes  his  subject  than  he  changes 
his  manner.  When  he  s])eaks  of  the  wrongs  and  degrada- 
tion of  Italy,  devastated  by  foreign  invaders,  and  but  feebly 


72 


Macaulay’s  miscellaxkous  avuitings. 


defended  hy  Iier  ])nsiIl;miinous  cliildren,  the  effeminate  lisp 
of  tlie  sonneteer  is  exeinmged  for  a cry,  wild  and  solemn, 
and  ])iercing  as  tliat  wliicli  ]>roclaimed  “Sleep  no  moi’e” 
to  tlie  bloody  liouse  of  Cawdor.  “Italy  seems  not  to  feel 
her  sufferings,”  exclaims  lier  impassioned  poet ; “decrej)it, 
eluggisli,  and  languid,  Avill  she  sleep  forever?  Will  there 
be  none  to  awake  her  ? Oh  that  1 had  my  hands  twisted 
in  her  hair  ! ” * 

Nor  is  it  with  less  energy  that  be  denounces  against  the 
Mahometan  Babylon  the  vengeance  of  Europe  and  of  Christ. 
His  magnificent  enumeration  of  the  ancient  exploits  of  the 
Greeks  must  always  excite  admiration,  and  cannot  be  pe- 
rused without  the  deepest  interest,  at  a time  wdien  the  wise 
and  good,  bitterly  disappointed  in  so  many  other  countries, 
are  looking  wdth  breathless  anxiety  towards  the  natal  land  of 
liberty, — the  field  of  Marathon, — and  the  deadly  pass  wdiere 
the  Lion  of  Lacedeemon  turned  to  bay.f 

His  poems  on  religious  subjects  also  deserve  the  highest 
commendation.  At  the  head  of  these  must  be  placed  the  Ode 
to  the  Virgin.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  hymn  in  the  world. 
His  devout  veneration  receives  an  exquisitely  poetical  char- 
acter from  the  delicate  perception  of  the  sex  and  the  loveli- 
ness of  his  idol,  which  we  may  easily  trace  throughout  the 
whole  composition. 

I could  dwell  Avith  pleasure  on  these  and  similar  parts 
of  the  Avritings  of  Petrarch  ; but  I must  return  to  his  amatory 
poetry : to  that  he  entrusted  his  fame  ; and  to  that  he  has 
principally  OAved  it. 

The  prevailing  defect  of  his  best  compositions  on  this 
subject  is  the  universal  brilliancy  Avith  which  they  are  lighted 
up.  The  natural  language  of  the  passions  is,  indeed,  often 
figurative  and  fantastic  ; and  with  none  is  this  more  the  case 
than  Avith  that  of  love.  Still  there  is  a limit.  The  feelings 
diould,  indeed,  have  their  ornamental  garb;  but,  like  an 
elegant  Avoman,  they  should  be  neither  mufiled  nor  exposed. 
The  drapery  should  be  so  arranged,  as  at  once  to  answer  the 
purposes  of  modest  concealment  and  judicious  display.  The 
decorations  should  sometimes  be  employed  to  hide  a defect, 
and  sometimes  to  heighten  a beauty ; but  never  to  conceal, 
much  less  to  distort,  the  charms  to  wLich  they  are  subsidi* 

Che  suoi  guai  non  par  che  senta ; 

Vecchia,  oziosa,  e lenta. 

Dormira  serapre,  e non  fia  chi  la  svegli  ? 

Leman  1’  avess’  io  avvolte  entro  e capegli.—Canzone  xi, 

Maratona.  e le  mortali  strette 

Che  (iifese  il  Leon  con  poca  gente.— Canzone  y. 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  73 

ary.  The  love  of  Petrarch,  on  tlie  contrary,  arrays  itself 
like  a foppish  savage,  whose  nose  is  bored  witli  a golden  ring, 
whose  skin  is  painted  with  grotesque  forms  and  dazzling 
colors,  and  whose  ears  are  drawn  down  his  shoulders  by  the 
weight  of  jewels.  It  is  a rule,  without  any  exception,  in  all 
kinds  of  composition,  that  the  principal  idea,  the  predomb 
nant  feeling,  should  never  be  confounded  with  the  accom- 
panying decorations.  It  should  generally  be  distinguished 
from  them  by  greater  simplicity  of  expression  ; as  we  rccc'g. 
nize  Napoleon  in  the  pictures  of  his  battles,  amidst  a crowd 
of  embroidered  coats  and  plumes,  by  his  gray  cloak  and  hia 
hat  without  a feather.  In  the  verses  of  Petrarch  it  is  gener- 
ally impossible  to  say  what  thought  is  meant  to  be  prominent. 
All  is  equally  elaborate.  The  chief  wears  the  same  gorgeous 
and  degrading  livery  with  his  retinue,  and  obtains  only  his 
share  of  the  indifferent  stare  which  we  bestow  upon  them  in 
common.  The  poems  have  no  strong  lights  and  shades,  no 
background,  no  foreground ; — they  are  like  the  illuminated 
figures  in  an  oriental  manuscript, — plenty  of  rich  tints  and 
no  perspective.  Such  are  the  faults  of  the  most  celebrated 
of  these  compositions.  Of  those  which  are  universally  ac- 
knowledged to  be  bad  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  speak  with 
patience.  Yet  they  have  much  in  common  with  their  splen- 
did companions.  They  differ  from  them,  as  a May-day 
procession  of  chimney-sweepers  differs  from  the  Field  of 
Cloth  of  Gold.  They  have  the  gaudiness  but  not  the  wealth. 
His  muse  belongs  to  that  numerous  class  of  females  who 
have  no  objection  to  be  dirty,  while  they  can  be  tawdry. 
When  his  brilliant  conceits  are  exhausted,  he  supplies  their 
place  with  metaphysical  quibbles,  forced  antitheses,  bad  puns, 
and  execrable  charades.  In  his  fifth  sonnet  he  may,  I think, 
be  said  to  have  sounded  the  lowest  chasm  of  the  Bathos. 
Upon  the  whole,  that  piece  may  be  safely  pronounced  to  bo 
the  worst  attempt  at  poetry,  and  the  worst  attempt  at  wit, 
in  the  world. 

A strong  proof  of  the  truth  of  these  criticisms  is,  that 
almost  all  the  sonnets  produce  exactly  the  same  efect  on  the 
mind  of  the  reader.  They  relate  to  all  the  various  moods  of 
a lover,  from  joy  to  despair : — yet  they  are  perused,  as  far 
as  my  experience  and  observation  have  gone,  with  exactly  the 
same  feeling.  The  fact  is,  that  in  none  of  them  are  the  passion 
and  the  ingenuity  mixed  in  just  proportions.  There  is  not 
enough  sentiment  to  dilute  the  condiments  which  are  em- 
ployed to  season  it.  The  repast  which  he  sets  before 


74 


Macaulay’s  misckllankous  wuitings. 


resembles  tlie  Spanisli  entertainment  in  Dryden’s  Mock  An- 
trolo(jer^  at  wliicli  the  relisli  of  all  the  dishes  and  sauces  was 
overpowered  by  the  common  flavor  of  spice.  Fish,  flesh, 
fowl, — every  thing  at  table  tasted  of  nothing  but  red  pepper. 

The  writings  of  Petrarch  may  indeed  suffer  undeservedly 
from  one  cause  to  which  I must  allude,  llis  imitators  have 
80  much  familiarized  the  ear  of  Italy  and  of  Europe  to  the 
favorite  toj)ics  of  amorous  flattery  and  lamentation,  that  wo 
can  scarcely  think  them  original  when  we  find  them  in  the 
first  author;  and,  even  when  our  understandings  have  con- 
vinced us  that  they  were  new  to  him,  they  are  still  old  to 
us.  This  has  been  the  fate  of  many  of  the  finest  passages  of 
the  most  eminent  writers.  It  is  melancholy  to  trace  a noble 
thought  from  stage  to  stage  of  its  profanation : to  see  it 
transferred  from  the  first  illustrious  wearer  to  his  lacqueys, 
turned,  and  turned  again,  and  at  last  hung  on  a scare-crow. 
Petrarch  has  really  suffered  much  from  this  cause.  Yet 
that  he  should  have  so  suffered  is  a sufficient  proof  that  his 
excellences  were  not  of  the  highest  order.  A line  may  be 
stolen  ; but  the  pervading  spirit  of  a great  poet  is  not  to  be 
surreptitiously  obtained  by  a plagiarist.  The  continued 
imitation  of  twenty-five  centuries  has  left  Homer  as  it 
found  him.  If  every  simile  and  every  turn  of  Dante  had 
been  copied  ten  thousand  times,  the  Divine  Comedy  'would 
have  retained  all  its  freshness.  It  was  easy  for  the  porter 
in  Farquhar  to  pass  for  Beau  Clincher,  by  borrowing  his 
lace  and  his  pulvilio.  It  would  have  been  more  difficult  to 
enact  Sir  Harry  Wildair. 

Before  I quit  this  subject  I must  defend^ Petrarch  from 
one  accusation,  which  is  in  the  present  day  frequently  brought 
against  him.  His  sonnets  are  pronounced  by  a large  sect 
of  critics  not  to  possess  certain  qualities  which  they  maintain 
to  be  indispensable  to  sonnets,  with  as  much  confidence,  and 
as  much  reason,  as  their  prototypes  of  old  insisted  on  the 
unities  of  the  drama.  lam  an  exoteric — utterly  unable  to  ex^^ 
plain  the  mysteries  of  this  new  poetical  faith.  I only  know 
that  it  is  a faith,  which  except  a man  do  keep  pure  and 
undefiled,  without  doubt  he  shall  be  called  a blockhead.  I 
cannot,  however,  refrain  from  asking  what  is  the  particular 
virtue  which  belongs  to  fourteen  as  distinguished  from  all 
other  numbers.  Does  it  arise  from  its  being  a multiple  of 
seven  ? Has  this  principle  any  reference  to  the  sabbatical 
ordinance  ? Or  is  it  to  the  order  of  rhymes  that  these  singular 
properties  are  attached  ? Unhappily  the  sonneta  of  Shak- 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  75 

spearo  differ  as  miicli  in  this  respect  from  those  of  Petrarch, 
as  from  a Spenserian  or  an  octave  stanza.  Away  with  this 
unmeaning  jargon ! We  liave  pulled  down  the  old  regime 
ot  criticism.  I trust  that  we  shall  never  tolerate  the  equally 
pedantic  and  irrational  despotism,  wdiich  some  of  the  rev- 
olutionary leaders  would  erect  upon  its  ruins.  We  have 
not  dethroned  Aristotle  and  Bossu  for  this. 

These  sonnet-fanciers  would  do  well  to  reflect  that, 
tliough  the  style  of  Petrarch  may  not  suit  the  standard  of 
perfection  w^hich  they  have  chosen,  they  lie  under  great  ob- 
ligations to  these  very  poems,— that,  but  for  Petrarch,  the 
measure,  concerning  which  they  legislate  so  judiciously, 
would  probably  never  have  attracted  notice  ; — and  that  to 
him  they  owe  the  pleasure  of  admiring,  and  the  glory  of 
composing,  pieces,  which  seem  to  have  been  produced  by 
Master  Slender,  with  the  assistance  of  his  man  Simple. 

I cannot  conclude  these  remarks  without  making  a few 
observations  on  the  Latin  wTitings  of  Petrarch.  It  appears 
that,  both  by  himself  and  by  his  contemporaries,  these  w^ere 
far  more  highly  valued  than  his  compositions  in  the  vernac- 
ular language.  Posterity,  the  supreme  court  of  literary  ap 
peal,  has  not  only  reversed  the  judgment,  but,  according  to 
its  general  practice,  reversed  it  with  costs,  and  condemned 
the  unfortunate  works  to  pay,  not  only  for  their  owm  inferi- 
ority, but  also  for  the  injustice  of  those  w^ho  had  given  them 
an  unmerited  preference.  And  it  must  be  owned  that,  with- 
out making  large  allowances  for  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  produced,  w^e  cannot  pronounce  a very 
favorable  judgment.  They  must  be  considered  as  exotics, 
transplanted  to  a foreign  climate,  and  reared  in  an  unfavor- 
able situation  ; and  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  expect  from 
them  the  health  and  the  vigor  wliich  we  find  in  the  indige- 
nous plants  around  them,  or  which  they  might  themselves 
have  possessed  in  their  native  soil.  He  has  but  very  imper- 
fectly imitated  the  style  of  the  Latin  authors,  and  lias  not 
compensated  for  the  deficiency  by  enriching  the  ancient  lan- 
guage Avith  the  graces  of  modern  poetry.  The  splendor 
and  ingenuity,  which  we  admire,  even  when  we  condemn  it, 
in  his  Italian  works,  is  almost  totally  wanting,  and  only  illu- 
minates with  rare  and  occasional  glimpses  the  dreary  ob- 
scurity of  the  Africa.  The  eclogues  have  more  animation  ; 
but  they  can  only  be  called  poems  by  courtesy.  They  have 
nothing  in  common  with  his  writings  in  his  native  language 
excejit  the  eternal  pun  about  Laura  and  Daphne.  None  oi 


76  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

these  works  would  have  ]»laced  him  on  a level  with  Vida  or 
Buchanan.  Yet,  Avhcn  we  compare  him  with  those  who  pre- 
ceded him,  when  we  consider  that  lie  went  on  the  forlorn 
liope  of  literature,  that  he  was  the  first  who  perceived,  and 
the  first  wlio  attemjited  to  revive,  the  finer  elegancies  of 
the  ancient  language  of  the  world,  we  shall  perhaps  think 
more  highly  of  him  than  of  those  who  could  never  Lave  sur- 
passed his  beauties  if  they  liad  not  inherited  them. 

He  has  aspired  to  emulate  the  jihilosojihical  eloquence 
oi  Cicero,  as  well  as  the  poetical  majesty  of  Virgil.  Ilia 
essay  on  the  Remedies  of  Good  and  Evil  Fortune  is  a singu- 
lar work,  in  a colloquial  form,  and  a most  scholastic  style. 
It  seems  to  be  framed  upon  the  model  of  the  Tusculan  Ques- 
tions,— with  what  success  those  who  have  read  it  may  easily 
determine.  It  consists  of  a series  of  dialogues  : in  each  of 
these  a person  is  introduced  who  has  experienced  some  happy 
or  some  adverse  event : he  gravely  states  his  case  ; and  a 
rcasoncr,  or  rather  Reason  personified,  confutes  him  ; a task 
not  yeiy  difficult,  since  the  disciple  defends  his  position  only 
by  pertinaciously  repeating  it,  in  almost  the  same  words,  at  the 
end  of  every  argument  of  his  antagonist.  In  this  manner 
Petrarch  solves  an  immense  variet}'  of  cases.  Indeed,  I doubt 
w hether  it  w^ould  be  possible  to  name  any  pleasure  or  any 
calamity  wffiich  does  not  find  a place  in  this  dissertation. 
He  gives  excellent  advice  to  a man  who  is  in  expectation  of 
discovering  the  philosopher’s  stone  ; — to  another,  who  has 
formed  a fine  aviaiy  ; — to  a third,  who  is  delighted  with  the 
tricks  of  a favorite  monkey.  His  lectures  to  the  unfortu- 
tunate  are  equally  singular.  He  seems  to  imagine  that  a pre- 
cedent in  point  is  a sufficient  consolation  for  every  form  of 
suffering.  “ Our  towm  is  taken,”  says  one  complainant ; “ So 
was  Troy,”  replies  his  comforter.  “ My  wife  has  eloped,” 
says  another ; “If  it  has  happened  to  you  once,  it  happened 
to  Menelaus  twice.”  One  poor  fellow  is  in  great  distress  at 
having  discovered  that  his  wife’s  son  is  none  of  his.  “ It  is 
hard,”  says  he,  “ that  I should  have  had  the  expense  of 
bringing  up  one  who  is  indifferent  to  me.”  “ You  are  a 
man,”  returns  his  monitor,  quoting  the  famous  line  ot  Ter- 
ence ; “ and  nothing  that  belongs  to  any  other  man  ought  to 
be  indifferent  to  you.”  The  physical  calamities  of  life  are 
not  omitted ; and  there  is  in  particular  a disquisition  on  the 
advantages  of  having  the  itch,  which,  if  not  convincing,  is 
certainly  very  amusing. 

The  invectives  on  ai  unfortunate  physician,  or  rather 


CRITICISMS  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  ITALIAN  WRITERS.  7? 

Upon  the  medical  science,  liave  more  spirit.  Petrarch  was 
thoroughly  in  earnest  on  this  subject.  And  tlie  bitterness  of 
his  feelings  occasionally  produces,  in  the  midst  of  his  clas- 
sical and  scholastic  pedantry,  a sentence  worthy  of  the  second 
Philippic.  Swift  himself  might  have  envied  the  chapter 
on  the  causes  of  the  paleness  of  physicians. 

Of  his  Latin  works  the  Epistles  are  the  most  generally 
known  and  admired.  As  compositions  they  are  certainly 
superior  to  his  essays.  But  their  excellence  is  only  compar* 
ative.  From  so  large  a collection  of  letters,  written  by  so 
eminent  a man,  during  so  varied  and  eventful  a life,  we 
should  have  expected  a complete  and  spirited  view  of  the 
literature,  the  manners,  and  the  politics  of  the  age.  A travel- 
ler— a poet — a scholar — a lover — a courtier — a recluse — he 
might  have  perpetuated,  in  an  imperishable  record,  the  form 
and  pressure  of  the  age  and  body  of  the  time.  Those  who 
read  his  correspondence,  in  the  hope  of  finding  such  informa- 
tion as  this,  will  be  utterly  disappointed.  It  contains  noth- 
ing characteristic  of  the  period  or  of  the  individual.  It  is 
a series,  not  of  letters,  but  of  themes  ; and,  as  it  is  not  gener- 
ally known,  might  be  very  safely  employed  at  public  schools 
as  a magazine  of  common-places.  Whether  he  write  on  poli- 
tics to  the  Emperor  and  the  Doge,  or  send  advice  and  con- 
solation to  a private  friend,  every  line  is  crowded  with  exam- 
ples and  quotations,  and  sounds  big  with  Anaxagoras  and 
Scipio.  Such  wa«  the  interest  excited  by  the  character  of 
Petrarch,  and  such  the  admiration  which  was  felt  for  his  epis- 
tolary style,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  that  his  letters 
reached  the  place  of  their  destination.  The  poet  describes, 
with  pretended  regret  and  real  complacency,  the  importu- 
nity of  the  curious,  who  often  opened,  and  sometimes  stole, 
these  favorite  compositions.  It  is  a remarkable  fact  that, 
of  all  his  epistles,  the  least  affected  are  those  which  are  ad- 
dressed to  the  dead  and  the  unborn.  Nothing  can  be  more 
absurd  than  his  whim  of  composing  grave  letters  of  expos- 
tulation and  commendation  to  Cicero  and  Seneca ; yet  these 
strange  performances  are  written  in  a far  more  natural  man- 
ner than  his  communications  to  his  living  correspondents. 
But  of  all  his  Latin  works  the  preference  must  be  given  to 
the  Epistle  to  Posterity ; a simple,  noble,  and  pathetic  com- 
position, most  honorable  both  to  his  taste  and  his  heart.  If 
we  can  make  allowance  for  some  of  the  affected  humility 
of  an  author,  we  shall  perhaps  think  that  no  literary  man 
has  left  a more  pleasing  memorial  of  himself. 


78 


MACAULAY’h  miscellaneous  WlilTINGS. 


Til  conclusion,  wc  may  pronounce  tliat  the  worlcs  of 
Pe^ra»’ch  were  below  both  liis  genius  and  bis  celebrity;  and 
that  tlie  circuiinstances  under  which  he  wrote  were  as  ad- 
verse to  the  develo])inent  of  his  jiowersas  they  were  favora- 
ble to  the  extension  of  his  fame 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  GREAT  LAWSUIT 
Bh:TWEE]Sr  THE  PARISPIES  OF  ST.  DENNIS 
AND  ST.  GEORGE  IN  THE  WATER. 

(KnighVs  Quarterly  Magazine^  Aprils  1824.) 

PART  I. 

The  parish  of  St.  Dennis  is  one  of  the  most  pleasant 
parts  of  the  country  in  which  it  is  situated.  It  is  fertile, 
well  wooded,  well  watered,  and  of  an  excellent  air.  For 
many  generations  the  manor  had  been  holden  in  tail-male 
by  a worshipful  family,  who  have  always  taken  precedence 
of  their  neighbors  at  the  races  and  the  sessions. 

In  ancient  times  the  affairs  of  this  parish  Tvere  admin- 
istered by  a Court-Baron,  in  which  the  freeholders  were 
judges  ; and  the  rates  were  levied  by  select  vestries  of  the 
inhabitant  householders.  But  at  length  these  good  customs 
fell  into  disuse.  The  Lords  of  the  Manor,  indeed,  still  held 
courts  for  form’s  sake ; but  they  or  their  stewards  had  the 
whole  management  of  affairs.  They  demanded  services, 
duties,  and  customs  to  Vv^hich  they  had  no  just  title.  Nay, 
they  w^ould  often  bring  actions  against  their  neighbors  for  their 
own  ])rivate  advantage,  and  then  send  in  the  bill  to  the  parish. 
No  objection  was  made,  during  many  years,  to  these  pro- 
ceedings, so  that  the  rates  became  heavier  and  heavier;  nor 
was  any  person  exempted  from  these  demands,  except  the 
footmen  and  gamekeepers  of  the  squire  and  the  rector  of  the 
parish.  They  indeed  were  never  checked  in  any  excess.  They 
would  come  to  an  honest  laborer’s  cottage,  eat  his  pancakes, 
tuck  his  fowls  into  their  pockets,  and  cane  the  poor  man 
himself.  If  he  went  up  to  the  great  house  to  complain,  it 


ST.  DENNIS  AND  ST.  GEORGE  IN  THE  WATER.  79 

was  hard  to  get  the  speech  of  Sir  Lewis ; and,  indeed,  his 
only  chance  of  being  righted  was  to  coax  the  squire’s  pretty 
housekeeper,  Avho  could  do  what  she  pleased  with  her  master. 
If  he  ventured  to  intrude  upon  the  Lord  of  the  Manor 
without  this  precaution,  he  gained  nothing  by  his  pains. 
Sir  Lewis,  indeed,  would  at  first  receive  him  with  a civil 
face ; for,  to  give  him  his  due,  he  could  be  a fine  gentleman 
when  he  pleased.  “ Good-day,  my  friend,”  he  would  say, 
“what  situation  have  you  in  my  family?”  “Bless  }our 
honor ! ” says  the  poor  fellow,  “ I am  not  one  of  your 
honor’s  servants ; I rent  a small  piece  of  ground,  your 
honor.”  “ Then,  you  dog,”  quoth  the  squire,  “ what  do 
you  mean  by  coming  here  ? Has  a gentleman  nothing  to 
do  but  to  hear  the  complaints  of  clowns  ? Here ! Philip, 
James,  Dick,  toss  this  fellow  in  a blanket ; or  duck  him,  and 
set  him  in  the  stocks  to  dry.” 

One  of  these  precious  Lords  of  the  Manor  enclosed  a deer- 
park  ; and,  in  order  to  stock  it,  he  seized  all  the  pretty  pet 
fawns  that  his  tenants  had  brought  up ; without  paying 
them  a farthing,  or  asking  their  leave.  It  was  a sad  day 
for  the  parish  of  St.  Dennis.  Indeed,  I do  not  believe  that 
all  his  oppressive  exactions  and  long  bills  enraged  the  poor 
tenants  so  much  as  this  cruel  measure. 

Yet  for  a long  time,  in  spite  of  all  these  inconveniences, 
St.  Dennis’s  was  a very  pleasant  place.  The  people  could 
not  refrain  from  capering  if  they  heard  the  sound  of  a 
fiddle.  And,  if  they  were  inclined  to  be  riotous.  Sir  Lewis 
had  only  to  send  for  Punch,  or  the  dancing  dogs,  and  all 
was  quiet  again.  But  this  could  not  last  for  ever  ; they 
began  to  think  more  and  more  of  their  condition ; and,  at 
last,  a club  of  foul-mouthed,  good-for-nothing  rascals  was  held 
at  the  sign  of  the  Devil,  for  the  purpose  of  abusing  the 
squire  and  the  parson.  The  doctor,  to  own  the  truth,  was 
old  and  indolent,  extremely  fat  and  greedy.  He  had  not 
preached  a tolerable  sermon  for  a long  time.  The  squire 
was  still  worse ; so  that,  partly  by  truth  and  partly  by 
falsehood,  the  club  set  the  whole  parish  against  their  supe- 
riors. The  boys  scrawled  caricatures  of  the  clergymen  upon 
the  church-door,  and  shot  at  the  landlord  with  pop-guns  as 
he  rode  a hunting.  It  was  even  whispered  about  that  the 
Lord  of  the  Manor  had  no  right  to  his  estate,  and  that,  if 
he  were  compelled  to  produce  the  original  title-deeds,  it 
would  be  found  that  he  only  held  the  estate  ia  trust  for 
the  in*nabitants  of  the  parish. 


80 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


In  the  mean  time  tlio  s(|uirc  was  ])rcssc(l  more  and  more 
for  money.  The  j)arish  could  j>ay  no  more.  Tlic  rector 
refused  to  lend  a farthing.  The  Jews  were  clamorous  for 
their  money ; and  the  landlord  had  no  other  resource  than 
to  call  together  the  inhabitants  of  the  parish,  and  to  request 
their  assistance.  They  now  attacked  him  furiously  about 
their  grievances,  and  insisted  that  he  should  relinquisli  his 
op})ressive  powers.  They  insisted  that  his  footmem  should 
be  kept  in  order,  that  the  parson  should  pay  his  share  of 
the  rates,  that  the  children  of  the  parish  should  be  allowed 
to  fish  in  the  trout-stream,  and  to  gather  blackberries  in  the 
hedges.  They  at  last  went  so  far  as  to  demand  that  he 
should  acknowledge  that  he  held  his  estate  only  in  trust  for 
them.  His  distress  compelled  him  to  submit.  They,  in 
return,  agreed  to  set  him  free  from  his  pecuniary  difficul- 
ties, and  to  suffer  him  to  inhabit  the  manor-house  ; and  only 
annoyed  him  from  time  to  time  by  singing  impudent  ballads 
under  his  window. 

The  neighboring  gentlefolks  did  not  look  on  these  pro- 
ceedings with  much  complacency.  It  is  true  that  Sir  Lewis 
and  his  ancestors  had  plagued  them  with  lawsuits,  and 
affronted  them  at  county-meetings.  Still  they  preferred 
the  insolence  of  a gentleman  to  that  of  the  rabble,  and  felt 
some  uneasiness  lest  the  example  should  infect  their  own 
tenants. 

A large  party  of  them  met  at  the  house  of  Lord  CaBsar 
Germain.  Lord  CaBsar  was  the  proudest  man  in  the  county. 
His  family  was  very  ancient  and  illustrious,  though  not  par- 
ticularly opulent.  He  had  invited  most  of  his  wealthy 
neighbors.  There  was  Mrs.  Kitty  North,  the  relict  of 
poor  Squire  Peter,  respecting  whom  the  coroner’s  jury  had 
found  a verdict  of  accidental  death,  but  whose  fate  had 
nevertheless  excited  strange  whispers  in  the  neigliborhood. 
There  was  Squire  Don,  the  owner  of  the  great  West  Indian 
property,  who  was  not  so  rich  as  he  had  formerly  been,  but 
still  retained  his  pride,  and  kept  up  his  customary  ])om)) ; so 
that  he  had  plenty  of  plate  but  no  breeches.  There  was 
Squire  Von  Blunderbussen,  who  had  succeeded  to  the 
estates  of  his  uncle,  old  Colonel  Frederic  Von  Blunder- 
bussen, of  the  hussars.  The  colonel  was  a very  singular 
old  fellow ; he  used  to  learn  a page  of  Chambaud’s  gram- 
mar, and  to  translate  Telemaque,  every  morning,  and  he 
kept  six  French  masters  to  teach  him  to  parleyvoo.  Never- 
thelessj  he  was  a shrewd  clever  man,  and  improved  his 


ST.  DENNIS  AND  ST.  GEORGE  IN  TUK  WATEE»  81 


estate  with  so  mucli  care,  sometimes  by  lionest  and  some- 
times by  dishonest  means,  tliat  he  left  a very  pretty  prop- 
erty to  his  nephew. 

Lord  CaDsar  poured  out  a glass  of  Tokay  for  Mrs.  Kitty. 

Your  health,  my  dear  madam,  I never  saw  you  look  more 
charming.  Pray,  what  think  you  of  these  doings  at  St. 
Pennis’s  ? ” 

‘‘  Fine  doings  ! indeed ! ” interrupted  Yon  Blunderbussen ; 

I wish  that  we  had  my  old  uncle  alive,  he  would  have  had 
some  of  them  up  to  the  halberts.  He  knew  how  to  use  a 
cat-o’-n  in  e-tails.  If  things  go  on  in  this  way,  a gentleman 
will  not  be  able  to  horsewhip  an  imimdent  farmer,  or  to  say 
a civil  word  to  a milkmaid.” 

‘‘  Indeed,  it’s  very  true.  Sir,”  said  Mrs.  Kitty ; ‘‘  their 
insolence  is  intolerable.  Look  at  me,  for  instance  : — a poor 
lone  woman  ! — My  dear  Peter  dead  ! I loved  him : — so  I did  ; 
and,  when  he  died,  I was  so  hysterical  you  cannot  think. 
And  now  I cannot  lean  on  the  arm  of  a decent  footman,  or 
take  a walk  with  a tall  grenadier  behind  me,  just  to  protect 
me  from  audacious  vagabonds,  but  they  must  have  their  nau- 
seous suspicions  ; — odious  creatures ! ” — 

“This  must  be  stopped,”  replied  Lord  Ca3sar.  “We 
ought  to  contribute  to  support  my  poor  brother-in-law 
against  these  rascals.  I will  write  to  Squire  Guelf  on  this 
subject  by  this  night’s  post.  His  name  is  always  at  the 
head  of  our  county  subscriptions.” 

If  the  people  of  St.  Dennis’s  had  been  angry  before,  they 
were  well-nigh  mad  when  they  heard  of  this  conversation. 
The  whole  parish  ran  to  the  manor-house.  Sir  Lewis’s 
Swiss  porter  shut  the  door  against  them  ; but  they  broke  in  ♦ 
and  knocked  him  on  the  head  for  his  impudence.  They 
then  seized  the  squire,  hooted  at  him,  pelted  him,  ducked 
him,  and  carried  him  to  the  watch-house.  They  twmed  the 
rector  into  the  street,  burnt  his  wig  and  band,  and  sold  the 
church-plate  by  auction.  They  put  up  a painted  Jezebel  in 
the  pulpit  to  preach.  They  scratched  out  the  texts  which 
were  Avritten  round  the  church,  and  scribbled  profane  scraps 
of  songs  and  plays  in  their  ]dace.  They  set  the  organ  play- 
ing to  pot-house  tunes.  Instead  of  being  decently  asked  in 
church,  they  were  married  over  a broom-stick.  But,  of  all 
their  whims,  the  use  of  the  new  patent  steel-traps  was  the 
most  remarkable. 

This  trap  was  constructed  on  a completely  new  principle. 
It  consisted  of  a cleaver  hung  in  % frame  like  a window ; 


82 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wfjtings. 


wlien  any  poor  wretcli  got  in,  down  it  came  with  a tremen- 
dous din,  and  took  off  his  liead  in  a twinkling.  They  got 
tlic  squire  into  one  of  these  machines.  In  order  to  prevent 
any  of  liis  partisans  from  getting  footing  in  the  parisli,  they 
placed  traps  at  every  corner.  It  was  impossible  to  walk 
through  the  highway  at  broad  noon  without  tumbling  into 
one  or  other  of  them.  No  man  could  go  about  liis  business 
in  security.  Yet  so  great  was  the  hatred  which  the  inhabi- 
tants entertained  for  the  old  family,  that  a few  decent  honest 
people,  who  begged  them  to  take  down  the  steel-traps,  and 
to  j)ut  up  humane  man-traps  in  their  room,  were  very 
roughly  handled  for  their  good-nature. 

In  the  mean  time  the  neighboring  gentry  undertook  a 
suit  against  the  parish  on  the  behalf  of  Sir  Lewis’s  heir,  and 
applied  to  Squire  Guelf  for  his  assistance. 

Everybody  knows  that  Squire  Guelf  is  more  closely  tied 
up  than  any  gentleman  in  the  shire.  He  could,  therefore, 
lend  them  no  help ; but  he  referred  them  to  the  Vestry  of 
the  Parish  of  St.  George  in  the  Water.  These  good  people 
had  long  borne  a grudge  against  their  neighbors  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stream ; and  some  mutual  trespasses  had 
lately  occurred  which  increased  their  hostility. 

There  was  an’ honest  Irishman,  a great  favorite  among 
them,  who  used  to  entertain  them  with  raree-shows,  and  to 
exhibit  a magic  lantern  to  the  children  on  winter  evenings, 
lie  had  gone  quite  mad  upon  this  subject.  Sometimes  he 
would  call  out  in  the  middle  of  the  street — “ Take  care  of 
that  corner,  neighbors ; for  the  love  of  Heaven,  keep  clear 
of  that  post,  there  is  a patent  steel-trap  concealed  there- 
abouts.” Sometimes  he  would  be  disturbed  by  frightful 
dreams ; then  he  would  get  up  at  dead  of  night,  open  his 
window  and  cry  “ fire,”  till  the  parish  was  roused,  and  the 
engines  sent  out.  The  pulpit  of  the  Parish  of  St.  George 
seemed  likely  to  fall;  I believe  that  the  only  reason  was 
that  the  parson  had  grown  too  fat  and  heavy ; but  nothing 
would  persuade  this  honest  man  but  that  it  was  a scheme 
of  the  people  at  St.  Dennis’s,  and  that  they  had  sawed 
through  the  pillars  in  order  to  break  the  rector’s  neck. 
Once  he  went  about  with  a knife  in  his  pocket,  and  told  all 
the  persons  whom  he  met  that  it  had  been  sharpened  by  the 
knife-grinder  of  the  next  parish  to  cut  their  throats.  These 
extravagancies  had  a great  effect  on  the  people  ; and  the 
more  so  because  they  were  espoused  by  Squire  Guelf ’s 
steward,  who  was  the  most  influential  person  in  the  parish^ 


ST.  DENNIS  AND  ST.  GEORGE  IN  THE  WATER.  83 

lie  was  a very  fair-s])okcii  man,  very  attentive  to  tlio  main 
chance,  and  the  idol  of  the  old  Avonien,  because  he  never 
played  at  skittles  or  danced  with  the  girls  ; and,  indeed, 
never  took  any  recreation  but  that  of  drinking  on  Saturdaj 
nights  with  his  friend  Harry,  the  Scotch  pedler.  His  sup- 
porters called  him  Sweet  William ; his  enemies  the  Bot- 
tomless Pit. 

The  people  of  St.  Dennis’s,  however,  had  their  advo- 
cates. There  was  Frank,  the  richest  farmer  in  the  parish, 
whose  great-grandfather  had  been  knocked  on  the  head  many 
years  before,  in  a squabble  between  the  parish  and  a former 
landlord.  There  was  Dick,  the  merry-andrew,  rather  light- 
fingered  and  riotous,  but  a clwer  droll  fellow.  Above  all, 
‘there  was  Charley,  the  publican,  a jolly,  fat,  honest  lad,  a 
great  favorite  with  the  women,  who,  if  he  had  not  been  rather 
too  fond  of  ale  and  chuck-farthing,  would  have  been  the  best 
fellow  in  the  neighborhood. 

‘‘  My  boys,”  said  Charley,  ‘‘  this  is  exceedingly  well  for 
Madam  North; — not  that  I would  speak  uncivilly  of  her; 
she  put  up  my  picture  in  her  best  room,  bless  her  for  it ! 
But,  I say,  this  is  very  well  for  her,  and  for  Lord  Caesar,  and 
Squire  Don,  and  Colonel  Von  ; — but  what  affair  is  it  of  yours 
or  mine  ? It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  gentlemen  should 
wish  to  keep  poor  people  out  of  their  own.  But  it  is  strange, 
indeed,  that  they  should  expect  the  poor  themselves  to  com- 
bine against  their  own  interests.  If  the  folks  at  St.  Dennis’s 
should  attack  us  vre  have  the  law  and  our  cudgels  to  protect 
us.  But  why,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  are  we  to  attack  them  ? 
When  old  Sir  Charles,  who  was  Lord  of  the  Manor  formerly, 
and  the  parson,  who  was  presented  by  him  to  the  living, 
tried  to  bully  the  vestry,  did  not  we  knock  their  heads  to- 
gether, and  go  to  meeting  to  hear  Jeremiah  Ringletub  preach  ? 
And  did  the  Squire  Don,  or  the  great  Sir  Lewis,  that  lived 
at  that  time,  or  the  Germains,  say  a word  against  us  for  it  ? 
Mind  your  own  business,  my  lads:  law  is  not  to  be  had  foi 
nothing ; and  we,  you  may  be  sure,  shall  have  to  pay  the 
whole  bill.” 

Nevertheless  the  people  of  St.  George’s  were  resolved 
on  law.  They  cried  out  most  lustily,  Squire  Guelf  for 
ever!  Sweet  William  for  ever!  No  steel  traps  ! ” Squire 
Guelf  took  all  the  rascally  footmen  who  had  worn  old  Sir 
Lewis’s  livery  into  his  service.  They  were  fed  in  the 
kitchen  on  the  very  best  of  every  thing,  though  they  had 
no  settlement.  Many  people,  and  paupers  iu  particular, 


84 


MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  AVKITINGS. 


pruinblcMl  :it  tlirso  jn-occH'diiigs.  The  stcMard,  however,  de- 
vised a way  to  kca'p  tlieiii  (juiet. 

There  had  lived  in  this  j)arisli  for  many  years  an  old 
gentleman,  named  Sir  Habeas  Cor])us.  He  was  said  by  some 
to  be  of  Saxon,  by  some  of  Norman,  extraction.  Some 
maintained  that  he  was  not  born  till  after  the  time  of  Sir 
Charles,  to  whom  we  have  before  ^Taded.  Others  are  of  opin- 
ion that  he  was  a legitimate  son  vif  old  Lady  Magna  Charla, 
although  he  was  long  concealed  and  kept  out  of  his  birthright. 
Certain  it  is  that  he  was  a very  benevolent  person.  When- 
ever any  poor  fellow  was  taken  on  grounds  which  he 
thought  insufficient,  he  used  to  attend  on  his  behalf  and  bail 
him  ; and  thus  he  had  become  so  popular,  that  to  take  direct 
measures  against  him  was  out  of  the  question. 

The  stew\ard,  accordingly,  brought  a dozen  physicians  to 
examine  Sir  Habeas.  After  consultation,  they  reported  that 
he  was  in  a very  bad  way,  and  ought  not,  on  any  account, 
to  be  allowed  to  stir  out  for  several  months.  Fortified  with 
this  authority,  the  parish  officers  put  him  to  bed,  closed  his 
windows,  and  barred  his  doors.  They  paid  him  every  at- 
tention, and  from  time  to  time  issued  bulletins  of  his  health. 
The  steAvard  never  spoke  of  him  without  declaring  that  he 
was  the  best  gentleman  in  the  world  ; but  excellent  care  was 
taken  that  he  should  never  stir  out  of  doors. 

When  this  obstacle  was  removed,  the  Squire  and  the 
steward  kept  the  parish  in  excellent  order ; fiogged  this  man, 
sent  that  man  to  the  stocks,  and  pushed  forward  the  lawsuit 
with  a noble  disregard  of  expense.  They  were,  however, 
wanting  either  in  skill  or  in  fortune.  And  every  thing  went 
against  them  after  their  antagonists  had  begun  to  employ 
Solicitor  Nap. 

Who  does  not  know  the  name  of  Solicitor  Nap?  At 
what  alehouse  is  not  his  behavior  discussed  ? In  what  print- 
shop  is  not  his  picture  seen?  Yet  how  little  truth  has  been 
said  about  him ! Some  people  hold  that  he  used  to  give 
laudanum  by  pints  to  his  sick  clerks  for  his  amusement. 
Others,  whose  number  has  very  much  increased  since  he  was 
killed  by  the  gaol  distemper,  conceive  that  he  w^as  the  very 
model  of  honor  and  good-nature.  I shall  try  to  tell  the 
truth  about  him. 

He  was  assuredly  an  excellent  solicitor.  In  his  way  he 
never  w^as  surpassed.  As  soon  a>s  the  parish  began  to  em- 
ploy him,  their  cause  took  a turn.  In  a very  little  time  they 
were  successful  5 and  Nap  became  rich.  He  now  set  up  ioi 


ST.  DEXXIS  AND  ST.  GEORGE  IN  THE  WATER. 


85 


a gentleman  ; took  possession  of  the  old  manor-house  ; got 
into  the  commission  of  the  peace,  and  affected  to  be  on  a par 
wiih  the  best  of  the  country.  He  governed  the  vestries  as 
absolutely  as  the  old  family  had  done.  Yet,  to  give  him  his 
due,  he  managed  things  with  far  more  discretion  than  either 
Sir  Lewis  or  the  riofers  who  had  pulled  the  Lords  of  the 
Manor  down.  He  kept  his  servants  in  tolerable  order.  He 
removed  the  steel  traps  from  the  highways  and  the  corners 
of  the  streets.  He  still  left  a few  indeed  in  the  more  ex- 
posed parts  of  his  premises;  and  set  up  a board  announcing 
that  traps  and  spring  guns  were  set  in  his  grounds.  He 
brought  the  poor  parson  back  to  the  parish ; and,  though  lie 
did  not  enable  him  to  keep  a fine  house  and  a coach  as 
formerly,  he  settled  him  in  a snug  little  cottage,  and  allowed 
him  a pleasant  pad-nag.  He  whitewashed  the  church  again  ; 
and  put  the  stocks,  which  had  be  , much  wanted  of  late, 
into  good  repair. 

Willi  the  neighboring  gentry,  however,  he  was  no  fa- 
vorite. He  was  crafty  and  litigious.  He  cared  nothing  for 
right,  if  he  could  raise  a point  of  law  against  them.  He 
pounded  their  cattle,  broke  their  hedges,  and  seduced  their 
tenants  from  them.  He  almost  ruined  Lord  Caesar  with 
actions,  in  every  one  of  which  he  was  successful.  Von 
Blunderbusen  went  to  law  with  him  for  an  alleged  trespass, 
but  was  cast,  and  almost  ruined  by  the  costs  of  suit.  He 
next  took  a fancy  to  the  seat  of  Squire  Don,  who  was,  to  say 
the  truth,  little  better  than  an  idiot.  He  asked  the  poor 
dupe  to  dinner,  and  then  threatened  to  have  him  tossed  in  a 
blanket  unless  he  would  make  over  his  estates  to  him.  The 
poor  Squire  signed  and  sealed  a deed  by  which  the  property 
was  assigned  to  Joe,  a brother  of  Nap’s,  in  trust  for  and  to 
the  use  of  Nap  himself.  Tlie  tenants,  however,  stood  out. 
They  maintained  that  the  estate  was  entailed,  and  refused 
to  pay  rents  to  the  new  landlord  ; and  in  this  refusal  they 
were  stoutly  supported  by  the  people  in  St.  George’s. 

About  the  same  time  Nap  took  it  into  his  head  to  match 
with  quality,  and  nothing  would  serve  him  but  one  of  the 
Miss  Germains.  Lord  Caesar  swore  like  a trooper  ; but  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  Nap  had  twice  put  executions  in  his 
principal  residence,  and  had  refused  to  discharge  the  latter 
of  th<3  two,  till  he  had  extorted  a bond  from  his  Lordship, 
which  compelled  him  to  comply. 


B6 


MACAULAY  S MISCLLLA^hKUUS  WKITINGS. 


A CONVERSATION 

BETWEEN  MR.  ABRAHAM  COWH.EY  AND  MR.  JOHN  MILTON, 
TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR. 

SET  DOWN  BY  A GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  AHDDLE  TEMPLE. 

(KnighVs  Quarterly  Magazine,  August,  1824.) 

“ Referre  serinoiies  Deonim  et 
Magna  modis  tenuare  parvis.”  Horace. 

I HAVE  thought  it  good  to  set  down  in  writing  a memorable 
debate,  wherein  I was  a listener,  and  two  men  of  pregnant 
narts  and  great  reputation  discoursers ; hoping  that  my  friends 
vill  not  be  displeased  to  have  a record  both  of  the  strange 
!yimes  through  which  I have  lived,  and  of  the  famous  men 
with  whom  I have  conversed.  It  chanced,  in  the  warm  and 
beautiful  spring  of  the  year  1665,  a little  before  the  saddest 
summer  that  ever  London  saw,  that  I went  to  the  Bowling 
Green  at  Piccadilly,  whither,  at  that  time,  the  best  gentry 
made  continual  resort.  There  I met  Mr.  Cowley,  who  had 
lately  left  Barnelms.  There  was  then  a house  preparing  for 
him  at  Chertsey ; and,  till  it  should  be  finished,  he  had 
come  up  for  a short  time  to  London,  that  he  might  urge  a 
suit  to  his  Grace  of  Buckingham  touching  certain  lands  of 
her  Majesty’s,  whereof  he  requested  a lease.  I had  the  honor 
to  be  familiarly  acquainted  with  that  ivorthy  gentleman 
and  most  excellent  poet,  whose  death  hath  been  deplored 
with  as  general  a consent  of  all  Powers  that  delight  in  the 
woods,  or  in  verse,  or  in  love,  as  was  of  old  that  of  Daphnis 
or  of  Gallus. 

After  some  talk,  which  it  is  not  material  to  set  down  at 
large,  concerning  his  suit  and  his  vexations  at  the  court, 
where  indeed  his  honesty  did  him  more  harm  than  his  parts 
could  do  liim  good,  I entreated  him  to  dine  with  me  at  my 
lodging  in  the  Temple,  which  he  most  courteously  promised. 
And,  that  so  eminent  a guest  might  not  lack  a better  enter- 
tainment than  cooks  or  vintners  can  provide,  I sent  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  John  Milton,  in  the  Artillery-Walk,  to  beg  that 
he  would  also  be  my  guest.  For,  though  he  had  been  secre- 


A CONVERSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR.  87 


tary,  first  to  the  Council  of  State,  and,  after  that,  to  the 
Protector,  and  Mr.  Cowley  had  held  the  same  post  under 
the  Lord  St.  Albans  in  his  banishment,  I hoped,  not- 
withstanding, that  they  would  think  themselves  rather 
united  by  their  common  art  than  divided  by  their  different 
factions.  And  so  indeed  it  proved.  For,  while  we  sat  at 
table,  they  talked  freely  of  many  men  and  things,  as  well 
ancient  as  modern,  with  much  civility.  Nay,  Mr.  Milton, 
who  seldom  tasted  wine,  both  because  of  his  singular  tem- 
perance and  because  of  his  gout,  did  more  than  once  pledge 
Mr.  Cowley,  who  was  indeed  no  hermit  in  diet.  At  last, 
being  heated,  Mr.  Milton  begged  that  I would  open  the 
windows,  “Nay,”  said  I,  “if  you  desire  fresh  air  and  cool- 
ness, what  should  hinder  us,  as  the  evening  is  fair,  from 
sailing  for  an  hour  on  the  river  ? ” To  this  they  both  cheer- 
fully consented ; and  forth  we  walked,  Mr.  Cowley  and  I 
leading  Mr.  Milton  between  us,  to  the  Temple  Stairs. 
There  we  took  a boat ; and  thence  we  were  rowed  up  the 
river. 

The  wind  was  pleasant ; the  evening  fine ; the  sky,  the 
earth  and  the  water  beautiful  to  look  upon.  But  Mr.  Cow- 
ley and  I hold  our  peace,  and  said  nothing  of  the  gay  sights 
around  us,  lest  we  should  too  feelingly  remind  Mr.  Milton 
of  his  calamity ; whereof,  however,  he  needed  no  monitor, 
for  soon  he  said  sadly,  “ Ah,  Mr.  Cowley,  you  are  a happy 
man.  What  would  I now  give  but  for  one  more  look  at 
the  sun,  and  the  waters,  and  the  gardens  of  this  fair  city ! ” 

“ I know  not,”  said  Mr.  Cowley,  “ whether  we  ought  not 
rather  to  envy  you  for  that  which  makes  you  to  envy  others : 
and  that  specially  in  this  place,  where  all  eyes  which  are 
not  closed  in  blindness  ought  to  become  fountains  of  tears. 
What  can  we  look  upon  which  is  not  a memorial  of  change 
and  sorrow,  of  fair  things  vanished,  and  evil  things  done  ? 
When  I see  the  gate  of  Whitehall,  and  the  stately  pillars 
of  the  Banqueting  House,  I cannot  choose  but  think  of  what 
I have  there  seen  in  former  days,  masques,  and  pageants,  and 
dances,  and  smiles,  and  the  waving  of  graceful  heads  and 
the  bounding  of  delicate  feet.  And  then  I turn  to  thoughts 
of  other  things,  which  even  to  remember  makes  me  to  Mush 
and  weep ; — of  the  great  black  scaffold,  and  the  axe  and 
block,  which  were  placed  before  those  very  windows  ; and 
the  voice  seems  to  sound  in  mine  ears,  the  lawless  and  ter- 
rible voice,  which  cried  out  that  the  head  of  a king  was  the 
head  of  a traitor.  There  stands  Westminster  Hall,  which 


88  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

who  can  look  upon,  ami  not  treinhle  to  tliink  liow  tiuxe,  and 
change,  and  death  confound  tlic  councils  of  tlic  wise,  and 
heat  down  tlie  wca])ons  of  the  mighty?  How  liave  I seen 
it  surrounded  witli  tens  of  tliousands  of  petitioners  crying 
for  justice  and  privilege  ! I low  have  I lieard  it  sliake  with 
fierce  and  proud  words,  which  made  the  hearts  of  the  people 
burn  within  them  ! Then  it  is  blockaded  by  dragoons,  and 
cleared  by  pikemen.  And  they  who  have  conquered  their 
master  go  forth  trembling  at  the  word  of  their  servant. 
And  yet  a little  while,  and  the  usurper  comes  forth  from 
it,  in  his  robe  of  ermine,  with  the  golden  staff  in  one  hand  and 
the  Bible  in  the  other,  amidst  the  roaring  of  the  guns  and 
the  shouting  of  the  people.  And  yet  again  a little  while, 
and  the  doors  are  thronged  with  multitudes  in  black,  and 
the  hearse  and  the  plumes  come  forth ; and  the  tyrant  is 
borne,  in  more  than  royal  pomp,  to  a royal  sepulchre.  A 
few  days  more,  and  his  head  is  fixed  to  rot  on  the  pinnacles 
of  that  very  hall  were  he  sat  on  a throne  in  his  life,  and  lay 
in  state  after  his  death.  When  I think  on  all  these  things,  to 
look  round  me  makes  me  sad  at  heart.  True  it  is  that  God 
hath  restored  to  us  our  old  laws,  and  the  rightful  line  of  our 
kings.  Yet,  how  I know  not,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  some- 
thing is  wanting — that  our  court  hath  not  the  old  gravity,  nor 
our  people  the  old  loyalty.  These  evil  times,  like  the  great 
deluge,  have  overwhelmed  and  confused  all  earthly  things. 
And  even  as  those  waters,  though  at  last  they  abated,  yet, 
as  the  learned  write,  destroyed  all  trace  of  the  garden  of 
Eden,  so  that  its  place  hath  never  since  been  found,  so  hath 
this  opening  of  all  the  flood-gates  of  political  evil  effaced  all 
marks  of  the  ancient  political  paradise.” 

“ Sir,  by  your  favor,”  said  Mr.  Milton,  “ though,  from 
many  circumstances  both  of  body  and  of  fortune,  I might 
plead  fairer  excuses  for  despondency  than  yourself,  I yet 
look  not  so  sadly  either  on  the  past  or  on  the  future.  That 
a deluge  hath  passed  over  this  our  nation,  I deny  not.  But 
I hold  it  not  to  be  such  a deluge  as  that  of  which  you  speak 
but  rather  a blessed  flood,  like  those  of  the  Nile,  which  iv. 
its  overflow  doth  indeed  wash  away  ancient  landmarks,  and 
confound  boundaries,  and  sweep  away  dwellings,  yea,  doth 
give  birth  to  many  foul  and  dangerous  reptiles.  Yet  hence 
is  the  fulness  of  the  granary,  the  beauty  of  the  garden,  the 
nurture  of  all  living  things. 

“ I remember  well,  Mr.  Cowley,  what  you  have  said  con- 
eerning  things  in  your  DisoQurse  of  the  Government 


A CONVERSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR.  89 

of  Oliver  Cromwell,  wliicli  my  friend  Elwood  read  to  me  last 
year.  Truly,  for  elegance  and  rhetoric,  that  essay  is  to  be 
compared  with  the  finest  tractates  of  Isocrates  and  Cicero. 
But  neither  that  nor  any  other  book,  nor  any  events,  which 
with  most  men  have,  more  than  any  book,  weight  and  au- 
thority, have  altered  my  opinion,  that,  of  all  assemblies  that 
ever  were  in  this  world,  the  best  and  the  most  useful  was 
our  Long  Parliament.  I speak  not  this  as  wishing  to  pro- 
voke debate;  which  neither  yet  do  I decline.” 

Mr.  Cowley  was,  as  I could  see,  a little  nettled.  Yet,  as 
he  was  a man  of  a kind  disposition  and  a most  refined  cour- 
tesy, lie  put  a force  upon  himself,  and  answered  with  more 
vehemence  and  quickness  indeed  than  was  his  wont,  yet  not 
uncivilly.  Surely,  Mr.  Milton,  you  speak  not  as  you  think. 
I am  indeed  one  of  those  who  believe  that  God  hath  re- 
served to  himself  the  censure  of  kings,  and  that  their  crimes 
and  oppressions  are  not  to  be  resisted  by  the  hands  of  their 
subjects.  Yet  can  I easily  find  excuse  for  the  violence  of 
such  as  are  stung  to  madness  by  grievous  tyranny.  But 
what  shall  we  say  for  these  men  ? Which  of  their  just  de- 
mands was  not  granted  ? Which  even  of  their  cruel  and 
unreasonable  requisitions,  so  as  it  were  not  inconsistent 
with  all  law  and  order,  was  refused?  Had  they  not  sent 
Strafford  to  the  block  and  Laud  to  tlie  Tower  ? Had  they 
not  destroyed  the  Courts  of  the  High  Commission  and  the 
Star  Chamber?  Had  they  not  reversed  the  proceedings 
confirmed  by  the  voices  of  the  judges  of  England,  in  the 
matter  of  ship-money?  Had  they  not  taken  from  the  king 
his  ancient  and  most  lawful  power  touching  the  order  of 
knighthood.  Had  they  not  provided  that,  after  their  disso- 
lution, triennial  parliaments  should  be  holden,  and  that  their 
own  powder  should  continue  till  of  their  great  condescension 
they  should  be  pleased  to  resign  it  themselves  ? What  more 
could  they  ask?  Was  it  not  enough  that  they  had  taken 
from  their  king  all  his  oppressive  powers,  and  many  tliat 
were  most  salutary  ? Was  it  not  enough  that  they  had  filled 
his  council-board  with  his  enemies,  and  his  prisons  with 
his  adherents  ? Was  it  not  enough  that  they  had  raised  a 
furious  multitude,  to  shout  and  swagger  daily  under  the  very 
windows  of  his  royal  palace  ? Was  it  not  enough  that  they 
had  taken  from  him  the  most  blessed  prerogative  of  princely 
mercy ; that,  complaining  of  intolerance  themselves,  they 
had  denied  all  toleration  to  others ; that  they  had  urged, 
against  forms,  scruples  childish  as  those  of  any  formalist; 


90 


Macaulay's  mtscellanuous  writings. 


that  they  had  ])crscciitcd  llio  least  reiniiaiit  of  llie  j)0])ish 
rites  with  tlie  liereest  bitterness  of  llie  ])0[)isli  spii’it?  Must 
tliey  besides  all  this  have  full  ])Ower  to  coiiimaiid  liis  armies, 
and  to  massacre  his  friends  ? 

“For  military  command,  it  was  never  known  in  any 
monarchy,  nay,  in  any  well  ordered  republic,  that  it  was  com- 
mitted to  the  debates  of  a large  and  unsettled  assembly. 
For  their  other  requisition,  that  he  should  give  up  to  their 
’Cngeance  all  who  had  defended  the  rights  of  his  crown,  his 
.ionor  must  have  been  ruined  if  he  had  complied.  Is  it  not 
therefore  plain  that  they  desired  these  things  only  in  order 
that,  byrefusing,  his  Majesty  might  give  them  a pretence  for 
war  ? 

“ Men  have  often  risen  up  against  fraud,  against  cruelty, 
against  rapine.  But  when  before  was  it  known  that  con- 
cessions were  met  with  importunities,  graciousness  with  in- 
sults, the  open  palm  of  bounty  with  the  clenched  fist  of  mal- 
ice ? Was  it  like  trusty  delegates  of  the  Commons  of  Eng- 
land, and  faithful  stewards  of  their  liberty  and  their  wealth, 
to  engage  them  for  such  causes  in  civil  war,  which  both  to 
liberty  and  to  wealth  is  of  all  things  the  most  hostile.  Evil 
indeed  must  be  the  disease  which  is  not  more  tolerable  than 
such  a medicine.  Those  who,  even  to  save  a nation  from 
tyrants,  excite  it  to  civil  war,  do  in  general  but  minister  to 
it  the  same  miserable  kind  of  relief  wherewith  the  wizards 
of  Pharaoh  mocked  the  Egyptian.  We  read  that,  when 
Moses  had  turned  their  waters  into  blood,  those  impious 
magicians,  intending,  not  benefit  to  the  thirsting  people, 
but  vain  and  emulous  ostentation  of  their  own  art,  did 
themselves  also  change  into  blood  the  water  which  the 
plague  had  spared.  Such  sad  comfort  do  those  who  stir  up 
war  minister  to  the  oppressed.  But  here  where  was  the  op- 
pression ? What  was  the  favor  which  had  not  been  granted  ? 
what  was  the  evil  which  had  not  been  removed ? What 
further  could  they  desire  ? ” 

“These  questions,”  said  Mr. Milton,  austerely,  “have  in- 
deed often  deceived  the  ignorant;  but  that  Mr.  Cowley 
should  have  been  so  beguiled,  I marvel.  You  ask  what  more 
the  Parliament  could  desire  ? I will  answer  you  in  one 
word,  security.  What  are  votes,  and  statutes,  and  reso- 
lutions ? They  have  no  eyes  to  see,  no  hands  to  strike  and 
avenge.  They  must  have  some  safeguard  from  without. 
Many  things,  therefore,  which  m themselves  were  peradven- 
ture  hurtful,  was  this  Parliament  constrained  to  ask,  lest 


A CONVERSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR.  91 

otherwise  good  laws  and  precious  rights  should  be  wdthout 
defence.  Nor  did  they  want  a great  and  signal  example  of 
this  danger.  I need  not  remind  you  that,  many  years  before, 
the  two  Houses  had  presented  to  the  king  the  Petition  of 
Right,  wherein  were  set  down  all  the  most  valuable  privi- 
leges of  the  people  of  this  realm.  Did  not  Charles  accept 
it?  Did  he  not  declare  it  to  be  law?  Was  it  not  as  fully 
enacted  as  ever  were  any  of  those  bills  of  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment concerning  wdiich  you  spoke  ? And  were  those  privi- 
leges therefore  enjoyed  more  fully  by  the  people  ? No  : th.e 
king  did  from  that  time  redouble  his  oppressions  as  if  to 
avenge  himself  for  the  shame  of  having  been  compelled  to 
renounce  them.  Then  were  our  estates  laid  under  shameful 
impositions,  our  houses  ransacked,  our  bodies  imprisoned, 
riien  was  the  steel  of  the  hangman  blunted  wdth  mangling 
the  ears  of  harmless  men.  xhen  our  very  minds  wmre  fet- 
tered, and  the  M’on  entered  into  our  souls.  Then  we  wmre 
compelled  to  hide  our  hatred,  our  sorrow,  and  our  scorn,  to 
laugh  with  h'dden  faces  at  the  mummery  of  Laud,  to  curse 
under  our  Meath  the  tyranny  of  Wentworth.  Of  old  time 
it  was  wmll  and  nobly  said,  by  one  of  our  kings,  that  an  Eng- 
lishman o’lght  to  be  free  as  his  thoughts.  Our  prince  re- 
versed the  maxim ; he  strove  to  make  our  thoughts  as  much 
slaves  ag  ourselves.  To  sneer  at  a Romish  pageant,  to  miscall 
a lord’.?  crest,  were  crimes  for  which  there  wms  no  mercy. 
These  were  all  the  fruits  which  we  gathered  from  those  ex- 
cellent laws  of  the  former  Parliament,  from  these  solemn 
promises  of  the  king.  Were  we  to  be  deceived  again  ? Were 
we  again  to  give  subsidies,  and  receive  nothing  but  prom- 
ises ? Were  we  again  to  make  w^holesome  statutes,  and  then 
leave  them  to  be  broken  daily  and  hourly,  until  the  oppres- 
sor should  have  squandered  another  supply,  and  should  be 
ready  for  another  perjury  ? Yon  ask  what  they  could  desire 
which  he  had  not  already  granted.  Let  me  ask  of  you  an- 
other qu^^stion.  What  pledge  could  he  give  which  he  had 
not  already  violated?  From  the  first  year  of  his  reign, 
whenever  he  had  need  of  the  purses  of  his  Commons  to  sup- 
port the  revels  of  Buckingham  or  the  processions  of  Laud, 
he  had  assured  them  that,  as  he  was  a gentleman  and  a 
king,  he  would  sacredly  preserve  their  rights.  He  had 
pawned  tho^a  solemn  pledges,  and  pawned  them  again  and 
again  ; bu^  when  had  he  redeemed  them  ? ‘ Upon  my  faith,’ 

— ‘ Upon  Tny  sacred  word,’— ‘ Upon  the  honor  of  a prince,’ — 
cme  sc  easily  from  his  lipSj  and  dwelt  so  short  a time  on  hia 


92 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


mind,  that  they  were  as  little  to  be  trusted  as  the  ‘ By  these 
hilts’  of  an  Alsatian  dicer. 

“ Therefore  it  is  that  I jiraise  this  Parliament  for  what 
else  I might  have  condemned.  If  what  he  had  granted 
liad  been  granted  graciously  and  readily,  if  what  lie  had 
before  ])romised  had  been  faithfully  observed,  they  could 
not  be  defended.  It  was  because  he  had  never  yielded  the 
worst  abuse  without  a long  struggle,  and  seldom  without  a 
large  bribe ; it  was  because  he  had  no  sooner  disentangled 
himself  from  his  troubles  than  he  forgot  his  promises ; and, 
more  like  a villainous  huckster  than  a great  king,  kept  both 
the  prerogative  and  the  large  price  which  had  been  paid  to 
him  to  forego  it ; it  was  because  of  these  things  that  it  was 
necessary  and  just  to  bind  with  forcible  restraints  one  who 
could  be  bound  neither  by  law  nor  honor.  Nay,  even 
while  he  was  making  those  very  concessions  of  which  you 
speak,  he  betrayed  his  deadly  hatred  against  the  people  and 
their  friends.  Not  only  did  he,  contrary  to  all  that  ever 
was  deemed  lawful  in  England,  order  that  members  of  the 
Commons  House  of  Parliament  should  be  impeached  of  high 
treason  at  the  bar  of  the  Lords ; thereby  violating  both  the 
trial  by  jury  and  the  privileges  of  the  House ; but,  not  con- 
tent with  breaking  the  law  by  his  ministers,  he  w^ent  himself 
armed  to  assail  it.  In  the  birth-place  and  sanctuary  of  free- 
dom, in  the  House  itself,  nay,  in  the  very  chair  of  the  speaker, 
placed  for  the  protection  of  free  speech  and  privilege,  he 
sat,  rolling  his  eyes  round  the  benches,  searching  for  those 
whose  blood  he  desired,  a’^.d  singling  out  his  epposers  to  the 
slaughter.  This  most  fou.  outrage  fails.  Then  again  for  the 
old  arts.  Then  come  gracious  messages.  Then  come  cour- 
teous speeches.  Then  is  again  mortgaged  his  often  forfeited 
honor.  He  will  never  again  violate  the  laws.  He  will  re- 
spect their  rights  as  if  they  were  his  own.  He  pledges  the 
dignity  of  his  crown ; that  crown  which  had  been  committed 
to  him  for  the  weal  of  his  people,  and  which  he  never  named, 
but  that  he  might  the  more  easily  delude  and  oppress  them. 

“ The  power  of  the  sword,  I grant  you,  was  not  one  to 
be  permanently  possessed  by  parliament.  Neither  did  that 
parliament  demand  it  as  a permanent  possession.  They 
asked  it  only  for  temporary  security.  Nor  can  I see  on  what 
conditions  they  could  safely  make  peace  with  that  false  and 
wicked  king,  save  such  as  w^ould  dej^rive  him  of  all  power 
to  injure. 

‘‘For  civil  war,  that  it  is  an  evil  I dispute  not.  But 


A CONVERSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR.  93 

that  it  is  the  greatest  of  evils,  that  I stoutly  deny.  It  doth 
indeed  appear  to  the  misjudging  to  be  a worse  calamity 
than  bad  government,  because  its  miseries  are  collected  to- 
gether within  a short  space  and  time,  and  may  easily  at  one 
view  be  taken  in  and  perceived.  But  the  misfortunes  of 
nations  ruled  by  tyrants,  being  distributed  over  many  cen- 
turies and  many  ])laces,  as  they  are  of  greater  weight  and 
nuriiber,  so  are  they  of  less  display.  When  the  Devil  of 
tyranny  hath  gone  into  the  body  politic  he  departs  not  but 
with  struggles,  and  foaming,  and  great  convulsions.  Shall 
he,  therefore,  vex  it  forever,  lest,  in  going  out,  he  for  a mo- 
ment tear  and  rend  it  ? Truly  this  argument  touching  the 
evils  of  war  would  better  become  my  friend  Elwood,  or 
some  other  of  the  people  called  Quakers,  than  a courtier 
and  a cavalier.  It  applies  no  more  to  this  war  than  to  all 
others,  as  well  foreign  as  domestic,  and,  in  this  war,  no  more 
to  the  Houses  than  to  the  king ; nay,  not  so  much,  since  he 
by  a little  sincerity  and  moderation  might  have  rendered 
that  needless  Avhich  their  duty  to  God  and  man  then  en- 
forced them  to  do.” 

“ Pardon  me,  Mr.  Milton,”  said  Mr.  Cowley  ; ‘‘  I grieve  to 
hear  you  speak  thus  of  that  good  king.  Most  unhappy  in- 
deed he  was,  in  that  he  reigned  at  a time  when  the  spirit  of 
the  then  living  generation  was  for  freedom,  and  the  prece- 
dents of  former  ages  for  prerogative.  His  case  was  like  to 
that  of  Christopher  Columbus,  when  he  sailed  forth  on  an 
unknown  ocean,  and  found  that  the  compass,  whereby  he 
shaped  his  course,  had  shifted  from  the  north  pole  whereto 
before  it  had  constantly  pointed.  So  it  was  v/ith  Charles. 
His  compass  varied;  and  therefore  he  could  not  tack  aright. 
If  he  had  been  an  absolute  king  he  would  doubtless,  like 
Titus  Vespasian,  have  been  called  the  delight  of  the  human 
race.  If  he  had  been  a Doge  of  Venice,  or  a Stadtholder  of 
Holland,  he  would  never  have  outstepped  the  laws.  But  he 
lived  when  our  government  had  neither  clear  definitions  nor 
strong  sanctions.  Let,  therefore,  his  faults  be  ascribed  to 
the  time.  Of  his  virtues  the  praise  is  his  own. 

“Never  was  there  a more  gracious  prince,  or  a more 
proper  gentleman.  In  every  pleasure  he  was  temperate,  in 
conversation  mild  and  grave,  in  friendship  constant,  to  ins 
servants  liberal,  to  his  queen  faithful  and  loving,  in  battle 
brave,  in  sorrow  and  captivity  resolved,  in  death  nn^st 
Christian  and  forgiving. 

“For  his  oppressions,  let  us  look  at  the  former  history 


94  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

of  this  realm.  James  was  never  accounted  a tyrant.  Eliza- 
beth is  esteemed  to  have  been  the  mother  of  her  j)cople. 
Were  they  less  arbitrary?  Did  they  never  lay  hands  on 
the  purses  of  tlieir  subjects  but  by  Act  of  Parliament? 
Did  they  never  confine  insolent  and  disobedient  men  but  in 
due  course  of  law?  Was  the  court  of  Star  Chamber  less 
active  ? Were  the  ears  of  libellers  more  safe  ? I pray  you, 
let  not  King  Charles  be  thus  dealt  with.  It  was  enough 
that  in  his  life  he  was  tried  for  an  alleged  breach  of  laws 
which  none  ever  lieard  named  till  they  were  discovered  for 
his  destruction.  Let  not  his  fame  be  treated  as  was  his 
sacred  and  anointed  body.  Let  not  his  memory  be  tried  by 
principles  found  out  ex  post  facto.  Let  us  not  judge  by  the 
spirit  of  one  generation  a man  whose  disposition  had  been 
formed  by  the  temper  and  fashion  of  another.” 

‘‘  Nay,  but  conceive  me,  Mr.  Cowley,”  said  Mr.  Milton  ; 
inasmuch  as,  at  the  beginning  of  his  reign,  he  imitated 
those  who  had  governed  before  him,  I blame  him  not.  To 
expect  that  kings  will,  of  their  own  free  choice,  abridge 
their  prerogative,  were  argument  of  but  slender  wisdom. 
Whatever,  therefore,  lawless,  unjust,  or  cruel,  he  either  did 
or  permitted  during  the  first  years  of  his  reign,  I pass  by. 
But  for  what  was  done  after  that  he  had  solemnly  given  his 
consent  to  the  Petition  of  Right,  where  shall  we  find  de- 
fence ? Let  it  be  supposed,  which  yet  I concede  not,  that 
the  tyranny  of  his  father  and  of  Queen  Elizabeth  had  been 
no  less  rigorous  than  was  his.  But  had  his  father,  had  that 
queen,  sworn,  like  him,  to  abstain  from  those  rigors  ? Had 
they,  like  him,  for  good  and  valuable  consideration,  aliened 
their  hurtful  prerogatives  ? Surely  not : from  whatever  ex- 
cuse you  can  plead  for  him  he  had  wholly  excluded  himself. 
The  borders  of  countries,  we  know,  are  mostly  the  seats  of 
perpetual  wars  and  tumults.  It  was  the  same  with  the  un- 
defined frontiers,  which  of  old  separated  privilege  and  pre- 
rogative. They  were  the  debatable  land  of  our  polity.  It 
was  no  marvel  if,  both  on  the  one  side  and  on  the  other, 
inroads  were  often  made.  But,  when  treaties  have  been 
concluded,  spaces  measured,  lines  drawn,  landmarks  set  up, 
that  which  before  might  pass  for  innocent  error  or  just  re- 
prisal becomes  robbery,  perjury,  deadly  sin.  He  knew  not, 
you  say,  which  of  his  powers  were  founded  on  ancient  law, 
and  which  only  on  vicious  example.  But  had  lie  not  read 
the  Petition  of  Riglit  ? Had  not  proclamation  been  made 
from  his  throne  : Soit  fait  comme  il  est  desire  f 


A conversation  touching  the  great  civil  war.  95 

‘‘  For  his  private  virtues  they  are  beside  tlie  question. 
Remember  you  not,”  and  Mr.  Milton  smiled,  but  somewhat 
sternly,  “ what  Dr.  Cains  saith  in  the  Merry  Wives  of  Shak- 
speare  ? ‘ What  shall  the  honest  man  do  in  my  closet  ? 

There  is  no  honest  man  that  shall  come  in  my  closet.’  Even 
so  say  I.  There  is  no  good  man  who  shall  make  us  his 
slaves.  If  he  break  his  word  to  his  people,  is  it  a sufficient 
defence  that  he  keeps  it  to  his  companions  ? If  he  oppress 
and  extort  all  day,  shall  he  be  held  blameless  because  he 
prayeth  at  night  and  morning?  If  he  be  insatiable  in  plun- 
der and  revenge,  shall  we  pass  it  by  because  in  meat  and 
drink  he  is  temperate  ? If  he  have  lived  like  a tyrant,  shall 
all  be  forgotten  because  he  hath  died  like  a martyr? 

‘‘He  was  a man,  as  I think,  who  had  so  much  semblance 
of  virtues  as  might  make  his  vices  most  dangerous.  He  was 
not  a tyrant  after  our  wonted  English  model.  The  second 
Richard,  the  second  and  fourth  Edwards,  and  the  eighth 
Harry,  were  men  profuse,  gay,  boisterous ; lovers  of  women 
and  of  wane,  of  no  outward  sanctity  or  gravity.  Charles 
was  a ruler  after  the  Italian  fashion ; grave,  demure,  of  a 
solemn  carriage,  and  a sober  diet ; as  constant  at  prayers  as 
a priest,  as  heedless  of  oaths  as  an  atheist.” 

Mr.  Cowley  answered  somewhat  sharply : “ I am  sorry, 

sir,  to  hear  you  speak  thus.  I had  hoped  that  the  vehemence 
of  spirit  wliich  was  caused  by  these  violent  times  had  now 
abated.  Yet,  sure,  Mr.  Milton,  whatever  you  may  think  of 
the  character  of  King  Charles,  you  will  not  still  justify  his 
murder.” 

“ Sir,”  said  Mr.  Milton,  “ I must  have  been  of  a hard 
and  strange  nature,  if  the  vehemence  which  was  imputed  to 
me  in  my  younger  days  had  not  been  diminished  by  the 
afflictions  wherewith  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God  to  chasten 
my  age.  I will  not  now  defend  all  that  I may  heretofore 
have  w^ritten.  But  this  I say,  that  I perceive  not  wherefore 
a king  should  be  exempted  from  all  punishment.  Is  it  just 
that  where  most  is  given  least  should  be  required?  Or 
politic  that  where  there  is  the  greatest  power  to  injure  there 
should  be  no  danger  to  restrain  ? But,  you  will  say,  there 
is  no  such  law.  Such  a law  there  is.  There  is  the  law  of 
self-preservation  written  by  God  himself  on  our  hearts.  There 
is  the  primal  compact  and  bond  of  society,  not  graven  on 
stone,  nor  sealed  with  wax,  nor  put  down  on  parchment,  nor 
set  forth  in  any  express  form  of  words  by  men  Avhen  of  old 
they  came  together ; but  implied  in  the  very  act  that  they  so 


96 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  ivritings. 


came  togetlier,  ])re-su|)|)osc(l  in  all  Hul>»e(|uent  law,  not  to  be 
re})ealc‘(l  by  any  authority,  not  invalidvted  by  being  omitted 
ill  any  code ; iiiasmucli  as  from  thence  are  all  codes  and  all 
authority. 

“Neither  do  I well  see  wherefore  you  cavaliers,  and  in- 
deed, many  of  us  whom  you  merrily  call  Round-heads,  dis- 
tinguish between  those  Avho  fought  against  King  Charles, 
and  s))ccially  after  the  second  commission  given  to  Sir 
Thomas  Fairfax,  and  those  who  condemned  him  to  death. 
Sure,  if  Ids  person  were  inviolable,  it  was  as  wicked  to  lift  the 
sword  against  it  at  Naseby  as  the  axe  at  AVhitehall.  If  his 
life  might  justly  be  taken,  why  not  in  course  of  trial  as  well 
as  by  right  of  war  ? 

“Thus  much  in  general  as  touching  the  rigid.  But,  for 
the  execution  of  King  Charles  in  particular,  I will  not  now 
undertake  to  defend  it.  Death  is  inflicted,  not  that  the  cul- 
prit may  die,  but  tho,t  the  State  may  be  thereby  advantaged. 
And,  from  all  that  t know,  I think  that  the  death  of  King 
Charles  hath  more  hindered  than  advanced  the  liberties  of 
England. 

“First,  he  left  an  heir.  lie  was  in  captivity.  The  heir 
was  in  freedom.  lie  was  odious  to  the  Scots.  The  heir  was 
favored  by  them.  To  kill  the  captive,  therefore,  whereby 
the  heir,  in  Ihe  a])prehension  of  all  royalists,  became  forth- 
with king — what  was  it,  in  truth,  but  to  set  their  captive 
free,  and  to  give  him  besides  other  great  advantages  ? 

“ Next,  it  was  a deed  most  odious  to  the  people,  and  not 
only  to  your  party,  but  to  many  among  ourselves  ; and,  as  it 
is  perilous  for  any  government  to  outrage  the  public  opin- 
ion, so  most  was  it  perilous  for  a government  which  had 
from  that  opinion  alone  its  birth,  its  nurture,  and  its  de- 
fence. 

“ Yet  doth  not  this  properly  belong  to  our  dispute ; nor 
can  these  faults  be  justly  charged  upon  that  most  renowned 
parliament.  For,  as  you  know,  the  high  court  of  justice  was 
not  established  until  the  House  had  been  purged  of  such 
members  as  were  adverse  to  the  army,  and  brought  wholly 
under  the  control  of  the  chief  officers.” 

“ And  who,”  said  Mr.  Cowley,  “ levied  that  army  ? Who 
commissioned  those  officers?  Was  not  the  fate  of  the  Com- 
mons as  justly  deserved  as  was  that  of  Diomedes,  who  was 
devoured  by  those  horses  whom  he  had  himself  taught  to  ^ 
feed  on  the  flesh  and  blood  of  men  ? How  could  they  hope 
that  ethers  would  respect  laws  which  they  had  themselves 


A CONVEKSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  AVAIL  D? 

insulted ; that  swords  Avhicli  liad  been  draAvn  against  the 
prerogath^es  of  the  king  would  be  put  u])  at  an  ordinance  of 
the  Commons?  It  Avas  believed,  of  old,  that  there  Avere 
some  devils  easily  raised  but  never  to  be  laid  ; insomuch  that, 
if  a magician  called  them  up,  he  should  be  forced  to  find 
them  always  some  employment ; for,  tliough  they  would  do  all 
kis  bidding,  yet,  if  he  left  them  but  for  one  moment  without 
some  Avork  of  evil  to  perform,  they  Avould  turn  their  claws 
against  himself.  Such  a fiend  is  an  army.  They  Avho  evoke 
it  cannot  dismiss  it.  They  are  at  once  its  masters  and  its 
slaves.  Let  them  not  fail  to  find  for  it  task  after  task  of 
blood  and  rapine.  Let  them  not  leave  it  for  a moment  in 
repose,  lest  it  tear  tliem  in  pieces. 

‘‘  Thus  Avas  it  Avith  that  famous  assembly.  They  formed 
a force  Avhich  they  could  neitlier  govern  nor  resist.  They 
made  it  ])OAverful.  They  made  it  fanatical.  As  if  military 
insolence  Avere  not  of  itself  sufficiently  dangerous,  they 
heightened  it  Avith  spiritual  pride, — they  encouraged  their 
soldiers  to  rave  from  the  tops  of  tubs  against  th^  men  of 
Belial,  till  e\^ery  trooper  thought  himself  a prophet.  They 
taught  them  to  abuse  popery,  till  every  drummer  fancied  that 
he  was  as  infallible  as  a pope. 

‘‘  Then  it  Avas  that  religion  changed  her  nature.  She  Avas 
no  longer  the  parent  of  arts  and  letters,  of  Avholesome  knoAvl- 
edge,  of  innocent  pleasures,  of  blessed  liousehold  smiles.  In 
their  place  came  sour  faces,  whining  A^oices,  the  chattering 
of  fools,  the  yells  of  madmen.  Then  men  fasted  from  meat 
and  drink,  Avho  fasted  not  from  bribes  and  blood.  Then  men 
froAvned  at  stage-plays,  Avho  smiled  at  massacres.  Then  men 
preached  against  painted  faces,  Avho  felt  no  remorse  for  their 
OAvn  most  ]>ainted  Ih^es.  Religion  had  l^een  a pole-star  to 
Gght  and  to  guide.  It  Avas  noAV  more  like  to  that  ominous 
star  in  the  book  of  the  Apocalypse,  which  fell  from  heaA^en 
upon  the  fountains  and  rivers  and  changed  them  into  worm- 
wood ; for  even  so  did  it  descend  from  its  high  and  celestial 
dwelling-place  to  plague  this  earth,  and  to  turn  into  bitter- 
ness all  that  was  SAv^eet,  and  into  poison  all  that  was  nour- 
ishing. 

“ Therefore  it  Avas  not  strange  that  such  things  should 
folio Av.  They  who  had  closed  the  barriers  of  London  against 
the  king  could  not  defend  them  against  their  OA\m  creatures. 
They  who  had  so  stoutly  cried  for  privilege,  Avhen  that  prince, 
most  unadAusedly  no  doubt,  came  among  them  to  demand 
their  members,  durst  not  Avag  their  fingers  when  Oliver 
VoL.  I.— 7 


98 


MArAULAY’s  MlSfTHlLL ANEOTTR  WRTTTNOR. 


f]Il(‘(l  tlicirhiill  witli  8ol<liors,  gave  luacc  to  a c(ir])oral, 

jmttlieir  kryH  in  his  ]K)ckt*t,  and  drove  lliem  forth  witli  haso 
terms,  borrowed  lialf  from  tlie  eoiiveiitiele  and  lialf  from  tlie 
ale-house.  Then  were  wo,  like  the  trees  of  the  forest  in  holy 
Avrit,  given  over  to  the  rule  of  the  bramble  ; then  from  the 
l)asest  of  the  shrubs  came  forth  the  fire  which  devoured  the 
c(‘dars  of  Lebanon.  We  bowed  down  before  a man  of  mean 
birlh,  of  ungraceful  demeanor,  of  stammering  and  most  vul- 
gar utterance,  of  scandalous  and  notorious  hypocrisy.  Our 
laws  Avere  made  and  unmade  at  his  pleasure ; the  constitu- 
tion of  our  parliaments  changed  by  his  Avrit  and  proclama- 
tion ; our  persons  imprisoned  ; our  property  plundered  ; our 
lands  and  houses  overrun  Avitli  soldiers ; and  the  great  charter 
itself  Avas  but  argument  for  a scurrilous  jest;  and  for  all  this 
Ave  may  thank  that  parliament : for  never,  unless  they  had  so 
violently  shaken  the  A^essel,  could  such  foul  dregs  have  risen 
to  the  top.” 

Then^  answered  Mr.  Milton  : “What  you  have  now  said 
comprehends  so  great  a number  of  subjects,  that  it  Avould 
require,  not  an  evening’s  sail  on  the  Thames,  but  rather  a 
\ojage  to  the  Indies,  accurately  to  treat  of  all  : yet,  in  as 
few  Avords  as  I may,  I Avill  explain  my  sense  of  these  matters. 

“ First,  as  to  the  army.  An  army,  as  you  ha\^e  Avell  set 
forth,  is  ahvays  a Aveapon  dangerous  to  those  Avho  use  it  : 
yet  he  Avho  falls  among  thieves  spares  not  to  fire  his  mus- 
quetoon,  because  he  may  be  slain  if  it  burst  in  his  hand.  Nor 
must  States  refrain  from  defending  themselves,  lest  their 
defenders  should  at  last  turn  against  them.  NeA^ertheless, 
against  this  danger  statesmen  should  carefully  provide  ; and, 
that  they  may  do  so,  they  should  take  especial  care  that 
neither  the  ofiicers  nor  the  soldiers  do  forget  that  they  are 
also  citizens.  I do  believe  that  the  English  army  Avould 
liave  continued  to  obey  the  parliament  Avith  all  duty,  but  for 
one  act,  v/hich,  as  it  Avas  in  intention,  in  seeming,  and  in 
immediate  effect,  worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  most 
famous  in  history,  so  a\' as  it,  in  its  final  consequence,  most 
injurious.  I speak  of  that  ordinance  called  the  self-denying^ 
and  of  the  neAv  model  of  the  army.  By  those  measures  the 
Commons  gaA^e  up  the  command  of  their  forces  into  the 
hands  of  men  Avho  Avere  not  of  themseh^es.  Hence,  doubt ''ess, 
derived  no  small  honor  to  that  noble  assembly,  Avhich  sac- 
rificed to  the  hope  of  public  good  the  assurance  of  priA^ate 
advantage.  And,  as  to  the  conduct  of  the  war,  the  scheme 
prospered,  Witness  the  battle  of  N aseby,  and  the  memorable 


A CONVERSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR.  99 

exploits  of  Fairfax  in  the  west.  But  thereby  the  Parliament 
lost  that  hold  on  the  soldiers  and  that  power  to  control 
them,  which  they  retained  while  every  regiment  was  com- 
m«andod  by  their  own  members.  Politicians  there  be,  who 
would  wholly  divide  the  legislative  from  the  executive  power. 
In  the  golden  age  this  may  have  succeeded  ; in  the  mil- 
lennium it  may  succeed  again.  But,  where  great  armies  and 
great  taxes  are  required,  there  the  executive  government 
must  always  hold  a great  authority,  which  authority,  that  it 
may  not  oppress  and  destroy  the  legislature,  must  be  in  some 
manner  blended  with  it.  The  leaders  of  foreign  mercenaries 
have  always  been  most  dangerous  to  a country.  The  officers 
of  native  armies,  deprived  cf  the  civil  privileges  of  other 
men.  are  as  much  to  be  fearci.  This  was  the  great  error  of 
that  Parliament  ; and,  though  an  error  it  were,  it  was  an 
error  generous,  virtuous,  and  more  to  be  deplored  than  cen- 
sured. 

“ Hence  came  the  power  of  the  army  and  its  leaders,  and 
especially  of  that  most  famous  leader,  whom  both  in  our 
conversation  to-day,  and  in  that  discourse  whereon  I before 
touched,  you  have,  in  my  poor  opinion,  far  too  roughly 
handled.  Wherefore  you  speak  contemptibly  of  his  parts  I 
know  not ; but  I suspect  that  you  are  not  free  from  the 
error  common  to  studious  and  speculative  men.  Because 
Oliver  was  an  ungraceful  orator,  and  never  said,  either  in 
public  or  private,  anything  memorable,  you  will  have  it  that 
he  was  of  a mean  capacity.  Sure  this  is  unjust.  Many  men 
have  there  been  ignorant  of  letters,  without  wit,  without 
eloquence,  who  yet  had  the  wisdom  to  devise,  and  the  courage 
to  perform,  that  which  they  lacked  language  to  explain. 
Such  men  often,  in  troubled  times,  have  worked  out  the  de- 
liverance of  nations  and  their  own  greatness,  not  by  logic, 
not  by  rhetoric,  but  by  wariness  in  success,  by  calmness  in 
danger,  by  fierce  and  stubborn  resolution  in  all  adversity. 
The  hearts  of  men  are  their  books  ; events  are  their  tutors  ; 
great  actions  are  their  eloquence  : and  such  an  one,  in  my 
judgment,  was  his  late  Highness,  who,  if  none  were  to  U’eat 
his  name  scornfully  now  who  shook  not  at  the  sound  of  it 
while  he  lived,  would,  by  very  few,  be  mentioned  otherwise 
than  with  reverence.  His  own  deeds  shall  avouch  him  for 
a great  statesman,  a great  soldier,  a true  lover  of  his  country, 
a merciful  and  generous  conqueror. 

For  nis  faults,  let  us  reflect  that  they  who  seem  to  lead 
are  oftentimes  most  constrained  to  follow.  - They  who  will 


100 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


mix  with  men,  and  specially  they  who  will  govern  them, 
must,  in  many  things,  obey  them.  They  who  will  yield  to  no 
such  conditions  may  he  hermits,  hut  cannot  be  generals  and 
statesmen.  If  a man  will  walk  straight  forward  without 
turning  to  the  right  or  the  left,  he  must  walk  in  a desert,  and 
not  in  Cheapside.  Thus  was  he  enforced  to  do  many  things 
which  jumped  not  with  his  inclination  nor  made  for  his 
lionor ; because  the  army,  on  which  alone  he  could  depend  for 

1)0 wer  and  life,  might  not  otherwise  be  contented.  And 
’,  for  mine  own  part,  marvel  less  that  he  sometimes  was  fain 
to  indulge  their  violence  ,than  that  he  could  so  often  re- 
strain it. 

‘‘  In  that  he  dissolved  the  Parliament,  I praise  him.  It 
then  was  so  diminished  in  numbers,  as  well  by  the  death  as 
by  the  exclusion  of  members,  that  it  was  i o longer  the  same 
assembly  ; and,  if  at  that  time  it  had  madt  itself  perpetual, 
we  should  have  been  governed,  not  by  a i jilnglish  House  of 
Commons,  but  by  a Venetian  Council. 

‘‘  If  in  his  following  rule  he  overstepped  the  laws,  I pity 
rather  than  condemn  him.  He  may  be  compared  to  that 
Maeandrius  of  Samos,  of  whom  Herodotus  saith,  in  his  Thalia, 
that,  wishing  to  be  of  all  men  the  most  just,  he  was  not  able  ; 
for  after  the  death  of  Polycrates  he  offered  freedom  to  the 
people  ; and  not  till  certain  of  them  threatened  to  call  him 
to  a reckoning  for  what  he  had  formerly  done,  did  he  change 
his  purpose,  and  make  himself  a tyrant,  lest  he  should  be 
treated  as  a criminal. 

“ Such  was  the  case  of  Oliver.  He  gave  to  his  country 
a form  of  government  so  free  and  admirable  that,  in  near 
six  thousand  years,  human  wisdom  hath  never  devised  any 
more  excellent  contrivance  for  human  happiness.  To  him- 
self he  reserved  so  little  power  that  it  would  scarcely  have 
sufficed  for  his  safety,  and  it  is  a marvel  that  it  could  suffice 
for  his  ambition.  When,  after  that,  he  found  that  the 
msmbers  of  his  Parliament  disputed  his  right  even  to  tha»^ 
small  authority  which  he  had  kept,  when  he  might  have 
kept  all,  then  indeed  I own  that  he  began  to  govern  by  the 
sword  those  who  would  not  suffer  him  to  govern  by  the  law. 

“ But,  for  the  rest,  what  sovereign  was  ever  more  princely 
in  pardoning  injuries,  in  conquering  enemies,  in  extending 
the  dominions  and  the  renown  of  his  people  ? What  sea, 
what  shore  did  he  not  mark  with  imperishable  memorials 
of  his  friendship  or  his  vengeance?  The  gold  of  Spain, 
the  steel  of  Sweden,  the  ten  thousand  sails  of  Holland, 


A CONVERSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR.  101 

availed  nothing  against  liim.  While  every  foreign  state 
trembled  at  our  arms,  we  sat  secure  from  all  assault.  War, 
which  often  so  strangely  troubles  both  husbandry  and  com- 
merce, never  silenced  the  song  of  our  reapers,  or  the  sound 
of  our  looms.  Justice  was  equally  administered;  God  w'as 
freely  worshipped. 

‘‘  Now  look  at  that  which  we  have  taken  in  exchange. 
With  the  restored  king  have  come  over  to  us  vices  of  every 
sort,  and  most  the  basest  and  most  shameful, — lust  without 
love — servitude,  without  loyalty — foulness  of  speech — dis- 
honesty of  dealing — grinning  contempt  of  all  things  good 
and  generous.  The  throne  is  surrounded  by  men  whom  the 
former  Charles  would  have  spurned  from  his  footstool.  The 
altar  is  served  by  slaves  whose  knees  are  supple  to  every 
being  but  God.  Rhymers,  whose  books  the  hangman  should 
burn,  pandars,  actors,  and  buffoons,  these  drink  a health  and 
throw  a main  with  the  King;  these  have  stars  on  their 
breasts  and  gold  sticks  in  their  hands ; these  shut  out  from 
his  presence  the  best  and  bravest  of  those  who  bled  for  his 
house.  Even  so  doth  God  visit  those  who  know  not  how  to 
value  freedom.  He  gives  them  over  to  the  tyranny  which 
they  have  desired,  ‘‘"/va  Ttdvreq  iTraupcovrat  l^atTcXTjoq.^^ 

“ I will  not,”  said  Mr.  Cowley,  ‘‘  dispute  with  you  on 
this  argument.  But,  if  it  be  as  you  say,  how  can  you  main- 
tain that  England  hath  been  so  greatly  advantaged  by  the 
rebellion  ? ” 

‘‘  Understand  me  rightly.  Sir,”  said  Mr.  Milton.  This 
nation  is  not  given  over  to  slavery  and  vice.  We  tasted 
indeed  the  fruits  of  liberty  before  they  had  well  ripened. 
Their  flavor  was  harsh  and  bitter;  and  we  turned  from 
them  with  loathing  to  the  sweeter  poisons  of  servitude. 
This  is  but  for  a time.  England  is  sleeping  on  the  lap  of 
Dalilah,  traitorously  chained,  but  not  yet  shorn  of  strength. 
Let  the  cry  be  once  heard — the  Philistines  be  upon  thee; 
and  at  once  that  sleep  will  be  broken,  and  those  chains  will  be 
as  flax  in  the  fire.  The  great  Parliament  hath  left  behind 
it  in  our  hearts  and  minds  a hatred  of  tyrants,  a just  knowl- 
edge of  our  rights,  a scorn  of  vain  and  deluding  names ; 
and  that  the  revellers  of  Whitehall  shall  surely  find.  The 
sun  is  darkened ; but  it  is  only  for  a moment ; it  is  but 
an  eclipse ; though  all  birds  of  evil  omen  have  begun  to 
scream,  and  all  ravenous  beasts  have  gone  forth  to  prey, 
thinking  it  to  be  midnight.  Woe  to  them  if  they  be  abroad 
when  the  rays  again  shine  forth ! 


102 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  AVKITINGS. 


Tlic  king  liatli  judged  ill.  Had  lie  been  Aviso  he  AV'Oiild 
have  remembered  tliat  lie  owed  his  restoration  only  to  con- 
fusions which  liad  Avearied  us  out,  and  made  us  eager  for 
repose.  He  Avould  have  knoAvn  that  the  folly  and  jierfidy 
of  a jirince  Avould  restore  to  the  good  old  cans#  many  liearts 
which  had  lieen  alienated  tlience  by  the  turbulence  of  fac- 
tions; for,  if  I knoAV  aught  of  liistory,  or  of  the  lieart  of 
man,  lie  will  soon  learn  that  the  last  champion  of  the  jieople 
w as  not  destroyed  when  he  murdered  Vane,  nor  seduced 
wdien  he  beguiled  F airfax.” 

Mr.  Cowley  seemed  to  me  not  to  take  much  amiss  Av^hat 
Mr.  Milton  hud  said  touching  that  thankless  court,  which 
had  indeed  but  poovly  requited  his  own  good  service.  He 
only  said,  therefore,  “ Another  rebellion  ! Alas ! alas ! Mr. 
Milton  ! If  there  be  no  choice  but  betAveen  despotism  and 
anarchy,  I jirefer  despotism.” 

Many  men,”  said  Mr.  Milton,  “ have  floridly  and  in- 
geniously compared  anarchy  and  despotism  ; but  they  who 
so  amuse  themselves  do  but  look  at  separate  parts  of  that 
Avhich  is  truly  one  great  whole.  Each  is  the  cause  and  the 
effect  of  the  other ; the  evils  of  either  are  the  evils  of  both. 
Thus  do  states  move  on  in  the  same  eternal  cycle,  which, 
from  the  remotest  point,  bfingc  them  back  again  to  the  same 
sad  starting-post : and,  till  botn  ;hose  who  govern  and  those 
who  obey  shall  learn  and  mark  chis  great  truth,  men  can  ex- 
pect little  through  the  future,  as  they  have  known  little 
through  the  past,  saA^e  vicissitudes  of  extreme  evils,  al- 
ternately producing  and  produced. 

“ When  Avill  rulers  learn  that,  w^here  liberty  is  not,  se- 
curity and  order  can  nev^er  be  ? We  talk  of  absolute  powder ; 
but  all  poAver  hath  limits,  which,  if  not  fixed  by  the  modera- 
tion of  the  governors,  will  be  fixed  by  the  force  of  the 
governed.  Sovereigns  may  send  their  opposers  to  dungeons ; 
they  may  clear  out  a senate-house  Avith  soldiers ; they  may 
enlist  armies  of  spies ; they  may  hang  scores  of  the  dis- 
affected in  chains  at  every  cross  road ; but  what  power  shall 
stand  in  that  frightful  time  Avhen  rebellion  hath  become  a 
less  CAul  than  endurance  ? Who  shall  dissoh^e  that  terrible 
tribunal,  which,  in  the  hearts  of  the  oppressed,  denoun cei 
against  the  oppressor  the  doom  of  its  wild  justice  ? Who 
shall  repeal  the  laAv  of  self-defence?  What  arms  or  disci- 
pline shall  resist  the  strength  of  famine  and  despair  ? How 
oft(‘u  w ere  the  ancient  Cfesars  dragged  from  their  golden 
palaces,  stripped  of  their  purple  robes,  mangled,  stoned,  do- 


A CONVERSATION  TOUCHING  THE  GREAT  CIVIL  WAR.  103 

filed  with  filth,  pierced  with  hooks,  hurled  into  Tiber  ? How 
often  have  the  Eastern  Sultans  perished  by  the  sabres  of 
their  own  janissaries,  or  the  bow-strings  of  their  own  mutes  ? 
For  no  power  which  is  not  limited  by  laws  can  ever  be  pro- 
tected by  them.  Small,  therefore,  is  the  wisdom  of  those 
wlio  would  fly  to  servitude  as  if  it  were  a refuge  from 
commotion ; for  anarchy  is  the  sure  consequence  of  tyranny. 
Tliat  governments  may  be  safe,  nations  must  be  free.  Their 
[)assions  must  have  an  outlet  provided,  lest  they  make  one. 

“When  I was  at  Naples,  I went  with  Signor  Manso, 
a gentleman  of  excellent  parts  and  breeding,  who  had  been 
the  familiar  friend  of  that  famous  poet  Torquato  Tasso,  to 
see  the  burning  mountain  Vesuvius.  I wondered  how  the 
peasants  could  venture  to  dwell  so  fearlessly  and  cheerfully 
on  its  sides,  when  the  lava  was  flowing  from  its  summit ; 
but  Manso  smiled,  and  told  me  that  when  the  fire  descends 
freely  they  retreat  before  it  without  haste  or  fear.  They  can 
tell  how  fast  it  will  move,  and  how  far ; and  they  know, 
moreover,  that,  though  it  may  work  some  little  damage,  it 
will  soon  cover  the  fields  over  which  it  hath  passed  with 
rich  vineyards  and  sweet  flowers.  But,  when  the  flames 
are  pent  up  in  the  mountain,  then  it  is  tliat  they  have  reason 
to  fear ; then  it  is  that  the  earth  sinks  and  tlie  sea  swells ; 
then  cities  are  swallowed  up ; and  their  place  knoweth  them 
no  more.  So  it  is  in  politics : where  the  people  is  most 
closely  restrained,  there  it  gives  the  greatest  shocks  to  peace 
and  order;  therefore  would  I say  to  all  kings,  let  your  dem- 
agogues lead  crowds,  lest  they  lead  armies ; let  them  blus- 
ter, lest  they  massacre ; a little  turbulence  is,  as  it  were, 
the  rainbow  of  the  state ; it  shows  indeed  that  there  is  a 
passing  shower ; but  it  is  a p>ledge  that  there  shall  be  no 
deluge.” 

“ This  is  true,”  said  Mr.  Cowley : “ yet  these  admoni- 
tions are  not  less  needful  to  subjects  than  to  sovereigns.” 

“ Surely,”  said  Mr.  Milton  ; “ and,  that  I may  end  this 
long  debate  with  a few  words  in  which  we  shall  both  agree, 
I hold  that,  as  freedom  is  the  only  safeguard  of  govern- 
aients,  so  are  order  and  moderation  generally  necessary  to 
preserve  freedom.  Even  the  vainest  opinions  of  men  are 
not  to  be  outraged  by  those  who  propose  to  themselves  the 
happiness  of  men  for  their  end,  and  who  must  work  with 
the  passions  of  men  for  their  means.  The  blind  reverence 
for  things  ancient  is  indeed  so  foolish  that  it  might  make  a 
wise  man  laugh,  if  it  were  not  also  sometimes  so  mischiev. 


hJ4  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wuitings. 

oiis  tliat  it  would  ratlier  make  a good  man  weep.  Yet, 
Riiice  it  may  not  be  wliolly  cured,  it  must  be  discreetly 
iudidged;  and  therefore  those  who  would  amend  evil  laws 
shouhl  consider  rather  how  much  it  may  be  safe  to  spare, 
than  how  much  it  may  be  possible  to  change.  Have  you 
not  heard  that  men  who  have  been  shut  up  for  many  years 
in  dungeons  shrink  if  they  see  the  light,  and  fall  down  if 
their  irons  be  struck  off.  And  so,  when  nations  have  long 
been  in  the  house  of  bondage,  the  chains  which  have  crip})led 
them  are  necessary  to  support  them,  the  darkness  which  hath 
weakened  their  sight  is  necessary  to  |)reserve  it.  Therefore 
release  them  not  too  rashly,  lest  they  curse  their  freedom  and 
pine  for  their  prison. 

‘‘I  think,  indeed,  that  the  renowned  Parliament,  of  which 
we  have  talked  so  much,  did  show,  until  it  became  subject 
to  the  soldiers,  a singular  and  admirable  moderation,  in  such 
times  scarcely  to  be  hoped,  and  most  worthy  to  be  an  exam- 
ple to  all  that  shall  come  after.  But  on  this  argument  I 
have  said  enough  : and  I will  therefore  only  pray  to  Almighty 
God  that  those  who  shall,  in  future  times,  stand  forth  in 
defence  of  our  liberties,  as  well  civil  as  religious,  may  adorn 
the  good  cause  by  mercy,  pruience,  and  soberness,  to  the 
glory  of  His  name  and  the  liapj^iness  and  honor  of  the  Eng- 
lish people.” 

And  so  ended  that  discourse ; and  not  long  after  we 
were  set  on  shore  again  at  the  Temple-gardens,  and  there 
parted  company ; and  the  same  evening  I took  notes  of  what 
liad  been  said,  which  I have  here  more  fully  set  down,  from 
regard  both  to  the  fame  of  the  men,  and  the  importance  of 
the  subject-matter. 


ON  THE  ATHENIAN  ORATORS. 

{KnighVs  Quarterly  Magaziney  August y 1824.) 

To  the  famous  orators  repair, 

lliose  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 

Wielded  at  will  that  fierce  democratie, 

Shook  the  arsenal,  and  fiilmined  over  Greece 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes’  throne.  Milton. 

The  celebrity  of  the  great  classical  writers  is  confined 
within  no  limits,  except  those  which  separate  civilized  from 


ON  THE  ATHENIAN  ORATORS. 


105 


savage  man.  Their  works  are  tlie  common  property  of 
every  polished  nation.  They  have  furnished  subjects  for  the 
painter,  and  models  for  the  poet.  In  the  minds  of  the 
educated  classes  throughout  Europe,  their  names  are  in- 
dissolubly associated  with  the  endearing  recollections  of 
childhood, — the  old  school  room, — the  dog-eared  grammar, 

. — the  first  prize, — the  tears  so  often  shed  and  so  quickly 
dried.  So  great  is  the  veneration  with  which  they  are 
regarded,  that  even  the  editors  and  commentators  who  per- 
I'orm  the  lowest  menial  offices  to  their  memory,  are  con- 
sidered, like  the  equerries  and  chamberlains  of  sovereign 
princes,  as  entitled  to  a high  rank  in  the  table  of  literary 
precedence.  It  is,  therefore,  somewhat  singular  that  thei 
productions  should  so  rarely  have  been  examined  on  ju^ 
and  philosophical  principles  of  criticism. 

The  ancient  writers  themselves  afford  us  but  little  assis 
ance.  When  they  particularize,  they  are  commonly  trivia 
4vhen  they  would  generalize,  they  become  indistinct, 
exception  must,  indeed,  be  made  in  favor  of  Aristotl 
Both  in  analysis  and  in  combination,  that  great  man  vii 
without  a rival.  No  philosopher  has  ever  possessed,  in  an 
equal  degree,  the  talent  either  of  separating  established  sys- 
tems into  their  primary  elements,  or  of  connecting  detached 
phenomena  in  harmonious  systems.  He  was  the  great 
fashioner  of  the  intellectual  chaos;  he  changed^its  darkness 
into  light,  and  its  discord  into  order.  He  brought  to  literary 
researches  the  same  vigor  and  amplitude  of  mind  to  which 
both  physical  and  metaphysical  science  are  so  greatly  in- 
debted. His  fundamental  principles  of  criticism  are  excel- 
lent. To  cite  only  a single  instance ; — the  doctrine  which 
he  established,  that  poetry  is  an  imitative  art,  when  justly  un- 
derstood, is  to  the  critic  what  the  compass  is  to  the  naviga- 
tor. With  it  he  may  venture  upon  the  most  extensive  ex- 
cursions. Without  it  he  must  creep  cautiously  along  the 
coast,  or  lose  himself  in  a trackless  expanse,  and  trust,  at  best, 
to  the  guidance  of  an  occasional  star.  It  is  a discovery 
wdiich  changes  a caprice  into  a science. 

The  general  propositions  of  Aristotle  are  valuable.  But 
the  merit  of  the  superstructure  bears  no  proportion  to  that 
of  the  foundation.  This  is  partly  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
character  of  the  philosopher,  who,  though  qualified  to  do  all 
that  could  be  done  by  the  resolving  and  combining  powers 
of  the  understanding,  seems  not  to  have  possessed  much  of 
sensibility  or  imagination,  Partly,  also,  it  may  be  attributed 


too 


MACAU  I.Ay’b  MISCELI.ANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


to  tlie  deficiency  of  materials.  The  great  works  of  genius 
wdiich  then  existed  were  not  either  sufficiently  numerous  or 
sufficiently  varied  to  enable  any  man  to  form  a perfect  code 
of  literature.  To  require  that  a critic  should  conceive 
classes  of  composition  which  had  never  existed,  and  then 
investigate  their  principles,  would  be  as  unreasonable  as  the 
demand  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  who  expected  his  magicians 
first  to  tell  him  his  dream  and  then  to  interpret  it. 

With  all  his  deficiencies,  Aristotle  was  the  most  en- 
lightened and  profound  critic  of  antiquity.  Dionysius  was 
far  from  possessing  the  same  exquisite  subtlety,  or  the  same 
Mst  comprehension.  But  he  had  access  to  a much  greater 
imber  of  specimens;  and  he  had  devoted  himself,  as  it 
pears,  more  exclusively  to  the  study  of  elegant  literature, 
is  peculiar  judgments  are  of  more  value  than  his  general 
'nciples.  He  is  only  the  historian  of  literature.  Aristotle 
ts  ])hilosopher. 

Quintilian  applied  to  general  literature  the  same  principles 
which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  judge  of  the  declam  a- 
ions  of  his  pupils.  He  looks  for  nothing  but  rhetoric,  and 
rhetoric  not  of  the  highest  order.  He  speaks  coldly  of  the 
incomparable  works  of  -dEschylus.  He  admires,  beyond 
expression,  those  inexhaustible  mines  of  common-places,  the 
plays  of  Euripides.  He  bestows  a few  vague  words  on  the 
poetical  charxicter  of  Homer.  He  then  proceeds  to  consider 
him  merely  as  an  orator.  An  orator  Homer  doubtless  was, 
and  a great  orator.  But  surely  nothing  is  more  remarkable, 
in  his  admirable  work,  than  the  art  with  which  his  oratorical 
powers  are  made  subservient  to  the  purposes  of  poetry.  Nor 
can  I think  Quintilian  a great  critic  in  his  own  province. 
Just  as  are  many  of  his  remarks,  beautiful  as  are  many  of  his 
Illustrations,  we  can  perpetually  detect  in  his  thoughts  that 
flavor  which  the  soil  of  despotism  generally  communicates 
to  all  the  fruits  of  genius.  Eloquence  was,  in  this  time,  little 
more  than  a condiment  which  served  to  stimulate  in  a despot 
the  jaded  appetite  for  panegyric,  an  amusement  for  the 
travelled  nobles  and  the  blue-stocking  matrons  of  Rome.  It 
IS,  therefore,  with  him,  rather  a sport  than  a war ; it  is  a 
contest  of  foils,  not  of  swords.  He  appears  to  think  more 
of  the  grace  of  the  attitude  than  of  the  direction  and  vigor 
of  the  thrust.  It  must  be  acknowledged,  in  justice  to  Quin- 
tilian, that  this  is  an  error  to  which  Cicero  has  too  often 
given  the  sanction,  both  of  his  precept  and  of  his  exam])le. 

Longinus  seems  %q  have  had  great  sensibility,  but  little 


ON  THE  ATHENIAN  ORATORS* 


107 


discrimination.  lie  gives  us  eloquent  sentences,  but  no 
princij)les.  It  was  happily  said  that  Montesquieu  ought  to 
have  changed  tlic  name  of  his  book  from  U JE sprit  des  Lois 
to  O' Esprit  sur  les  Lois.  In  the  same  manner  the  philos- 
opher of  Palmyra  ought  to  have  entitled  his  famous  work, 
not  “ Longinus  on  the  Sublime,”  but  “ The  Sublimities  of 
Longinus.”  The  origin  of  the  sublime  is  one  of  the  most 
curious  and  interesting  subjects  of  inquiry  that  can  oc- 
cupy the  attention  of  a critic.  In  our  owm  country  it  has 
been  discussed,  with  great  ability,  and,  I think,  with  very 
little  success,  by  Burke  and  Dugald  Stuart.  Longinus  dis- 
penses himself  from  all  investigations  of  this  nature,  by 
telling  his  friend  Terentianus  that  he  already  knows  every 
thing  that  can  be  said  upon  the  question.  It  is  to  be  re- 
gretted that  Terentianus  did  not  impart  some  of  his  knowl- 
edge to  his  instructor  : for  from  Longinus  we  learn  only  that 
suWimity  means  height — or  elevation.*  This  name,  so 
commodiously  vague,  is  applied  indifferently  to  the  noble 
prayer  of  Ajax  in  the  Iliad,  and  to  a passage  of  Plato  about 
the  human  body,  as  full  of  conceits  as  an  ode  of  Cowley. 
Having  no  fixed  standard,  Longinus  is  right  only  by  accident. 
He  is  rather  a fancier  than  a critic. 

Modern  writers  have  been  prevented  by  many  causes 
from  supplying  the  deficiencies  of  their  classical  predecessors. 
At  the  time  of  the  revival  of  literature,  no  man  could,  with- 
out great  and  painful  labor,  acquire  an  accurate  and  elegant 
knowledge  of  the  ancient  languages.  And,  unfortunately, 
those  grammatical  and  philological  studies,  without  which 
it  was  impossible  to  understand  the  great  works  of  Athenian 
and  Roman  genius,  have  a tendency  to  contract  the  views 
and  deaden  the  sensibility  of  those  w^ho  follow  them  with 
extreme  assiduity.  A powerful  mind,  which  has  been  long 
employed  in  such  studies,  may  be"  compared  to  the  gigant'.o 
fipirp.  in  the  Arabian  tale,  who  was  persuaded  to  contract 
himself  to  small  dimensions  in  order  to  enter  within  the  en- 
chanted vessel,  and  when  his  prison  had  been  closed  upon 
him.,  found  himself  unable  to  escape  from  the  narrow  boun- 
daries to  the  measure  of  which  he  had  reduced  his  stature. 
When  the  means  have  long  been  the  objects  of  application, 
they  are  naturally  substituted  for  the  end.  It  was  said,  by 
Eugene  of  Savoy,  that  the  greatest  generals  have  commonly 
been  those  who  have  been  at  once  raised  to  command,  and 
introduced  to  the  great  operations  of  war,  without  being 

• ’A/fpoTijs  Ka\  Tis  t\6y(iiv  iarl  rd 


108  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

t'mjiloyed  in  llie  petty  calculations  and  manoeuvres  which 
employed  the  time  of  an  inferior  officer.  In  literature  the 
j)rinciple  is  ecpially  sound.  The  great  tactics  of  criticism 
will,  in  general,  be  best  understood  by  those  who  have  not 
had  inuch  })i*actice  in  drilling  syllables  and  particles. 

I remember  to  have  observed  among  tlie  French  Anas  a 
ludicrous  instance  of  this.  A scholar,  doubtless  of  great 
learning,  recommends  the  study  of  some  long  Latin  treatise, 
of  which  I now  forget  the  name,  on  the  religion,  manners, 
government  and  language  of  the  early  Greeks.  “ For  there,” 
says  he,  “ you  will  learn  every  thing  of  importance  that  is 
contained  in  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  without  the  trouble  of 
reading  two  such  tedious  books.”  Alas  ! it  had  not  occurred 
to  the  poor  gentleman  that  all  the  knowledge  to  which  he 
attached  so  much  value  was  useful  only  as  it  illustrated 
the  great  poems  which  he  despised,  and  w^ould  be  as  worth- 
less for  any  other  purpose  as  the  mythology  of  Caffraria,  or 
the  vocabulary  of  Otaheite. 

Of  those  scholars  who  have  disdained  to  confine  themselves 
to  verbal  criticism  few  have  been  successful.  The  ancient 
languages  have,  generally,  a magical  influence  on  their  facul- 
ties. They  were  fools  called  into  a circle  by  Greek  invo- 
cations.” The  Iliad  and  JEneid  w^ere  to  them  not  book«, 
but  curiosities,  or  rather  reliques.  They  no  more  admired 
those  Avorks  for  their  merits  than  a good  Catholic  venerates 
the  house  of  the  Virgin  at  Loretto  for  its  architectu>*e. 
Whatever  Avas  classical  Avas  good.  Homer  Avas  a great  poet ; 
and  so  AA^as  Callimachus.  The  epistles  of  Cicero  were  fine; 
and  so  Avere  those  of  Phalaris.  Even  with  respect  to  ques- 
tions of  evidence  they  fell  into  the  same  error.  The  author- 
ity of  all  narrations,  Avritten  in  Greek  or  Latin,  was  the 
same  Avith  them.  It  never  crossed  their  minds  that  the 
lapse  of  five  hundred  years,  or  the  distance  of  five  hundred 
leagues,  could  affect  the  accuracy  of  a narration; — tliat 
Livy  could  be  a less  A^eracious  historian  than  Polybius; — or 
that  Plutarch  could  knoAv  less  about  the  friends  of  Xenophon 
than  Xenophon  himself.  Deceived  by  the  distance  of  time, 
they  seem  to  consider  all  the  Classics  as  contemporaries; 
just  as  I liaA^e  known  people  in  England,  deceived  by  the 
distance  of  place,  take  it  for  granted  that  all  persons  who 
live  in  India  are  neighbors,  and  ask  an  inhabitant  of  Bom- 
bay about  the  health  of  an  acquaintance  at  Calcutta.  It 
is  to  be  hoped  that  no  barbarian  deluge  will  ever  again 
pass  over  Europe.  But,  should  such  a calamity  happen, 


ON  THE  ATHENIAN  ORATOES. 


109 


It  seems  not  improbable  that  some  future  Rollir  or  Gil- 
lies will  compile  a history  of  England  from  Miss  Porter’s 
Scottish  Chiefs,  Miss  Lee’s  Recess,  and  Sir  Nathaniel 
Wraxall’s  Memoirs. 

It  is  surely  time  that  ancient  literature  should  be  ex^ 
amined  in  a different  manner,  without  pedantical  preposses- 
sions, but  with  a just  allowance,  at  the  same  time,  for  the 
difference  of  circumstances  and  manners.  I am  far  froni 
pretending  to  the  knowledge  or  ability  which  such  a task 
would  require.  All  that  I mean  to  offer  is  a collection  of 
desultory  remarks  upon  a most  interesting  portion  of  Greek 
literature. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  compositions  which  have 
ever  been  produced  in  the  world  are  equally  perfect  in  their 
kind  with  the  great  Athenian  orations.  Genius  is  subject  to 
the  same  laws  which  regulate  the  production  of  cotton  and 
molasses.  The  supply  adjusts  itself  to  the  demand.  The 
quantity  may  be  diminished  by  restrictions,  and  multiplied 
by  bounties.  The  singular  excellence  to  which  eloquence 
attained  at  Athens  is  to  be  mainly  attributed  to  the  influence 
which  it  exerted  there.  In  turbulent  times,  under  a con- 
stitution purely  democratic,  among  a people  educated 
exactly  to  that  point  at  which  men  are  most  susceptible  of 
strong  and  sudden  impressions,  acute,  but  not  sound 
reasoners,  warm  in  their  feelings,  unfixed  in  their  principles, 
and  passionate  admirers  of  fine  composition,  oratory  re- 
ceived such  encouragement  as  it  has  never  since  obtained. 

The  taste  and  knowledge  of  the  Athenian  people  was  a 
favorite  object  of  the  contemptuous  derision  of  Samuel 
Johnson  ; a man  who  knew  nothing  of  Greek  literature  be- 
yond the  common  school-books,  and  Avho  seems  to  have 
brought  to  what  he  had  read  scarcely  more  than  the  discern- 
ment of  a common  school-boy.  He  used  to  assert,  with  that 
arrogant  absurdity  which,  in  spite  of  his  great  abilities  and 
virtues,  renders  him,  perhaps,  the  most  ridiculous  character 
in  literary  history,  that  Demosthenes  spoke  to  a people  of 
brutes  ; — to  a barbarous  people  ; — that  there  could  have  been 
no  civilization  before  the  invention  of  printing.  Johnson 
was  a keen  but  a very  narrow-minded  observer  of  mankind. 
He  perpetually  confounded  their  general  nature  with  their 
particular  circumstances.  He  knew  London  intimately. 
The  sagacity  of  his  remarks  on  its  society  is  perfectly 
astonishing.  But  Fleet  Street  was  the  world  to  him.  He 
saw  that  Londoners  who  did  not  read  were  profoundly 


no 


Macaulay’s  miscellane(Jtus  wiiiTiNcs. 


ii^Cnoraiit  ; and  1k‘  inferred  tliat  a (^reek,  wdio  liad  few  or  no 
hooks,  111  list  have  licaai  as  uninformed  as  one  of  Mr.  Thrale’s 
(Iraynu'n. 

Tliere  seems  to  be,  on  the  contrary,  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve tliat,  in  general  intelligence,  tlie  Athenian  j>opulace  far 
surpassed  the  lower  orders  of  any  community  that  lias  ever 
existed.  It  must  be  considered,  that  to  be  a citizen  was  to 
be  a legislator, — a soldier, — a judge, — one  upon  wliose  voice 
iniglit  depend  tlie  fate  of  the  wealthiest  tributary  state,  of 
the  most  eminent  public  man.  The  lowest  offices,  both  of 
agriculture  and  of  trade,  were,  in  common,  performed  by 
slaves.  The  commonwealth  supjdied  its  meanest  members 
with  the  support  of  life,  the  opportunity  of  leisure,  and  the 
means  of  amusement.  Books  were  indeed  few : but  they 
were  excellent;  and  they  were  accurately  known.  It  is  not 
by  turning  over  libraries,  but  by  repeatedly  perusing  and 
intently  contemplating  a few  great  models,  that  the  mind 
is  best  disciplined.  A man  of  letters  must  nov/  read  much 
that  he  soon  forgets,  and  much  from  which  he  learns  nothing 
worthy  to  be  remembered.  The  best  works  employ,  in 
general,  but  a small  portion  of  his  time.  Demosthenes  is 
said  to  have  transcribed  six  times  the  history  of  Thucydides. 
If  he  had  been  a young  politician  of  the  present  age,  he 
might  in  the  same  space  of  time  have  skimmed  innumerable 
newspapers  and  pamphlets.  I do  not  condemn  that  desul- 
tory mode  of  study  which  the  state  of  things,  in  our  day, 
renders  a matter  of  necessity.  But  I may  be  allowed  to 
doubt  whether  the  changes  on  which  the  admirers  of  modern 
institutions  delight  to  dwell  have  improved  our  condition  so 
much  in  reality  as  in  appearance.  Rumford,  it  is  said,  pro- 
posed  to  the  elector  of  Bavaria  a scheme  for  feeding  his 
soldiers  at  a much  cheaper  rate  than  formerly.  His  plan 
was  simply  to  compel  them  to  masticate  their  food 
thoroughly.  A small  quantity,  thus  eaten,  would,  according 
to  that  famous  projector,  afford  more  sustenance  than  a 
large  meal  hastily  devoured.  I do  not  know  how  Rumford^a 

()roposition  was  received ; but  to  the  mind,  I believe,  it  will 
)e  found  more  nutritious  to  digest  a page  than  to  devour  a 
volume. 

Books,  however,  were  the  least  part  of  the  education  of 
an  Athenian  citizen.  Let  us,  for  a moment,  transport  our- 
selves, in  thought,  to  that  glorious  city.  Let  us  imagine  that 
we  are  entering  its  gates,  in  the  time  of  its  power  and  glory. 
A crowd  is  assembled  round  a portico.  All  are  gazing  with 


ON  THE  ATHENIAN  ORATORS. 


Ill 


delight  at  the  entablature ; for  Phidias  is  putting  up  the 
frieze.  We  turn  into  another  street ; a rhapsodist  is  recit- 
ing there  : men,  Av^omen,  children  are  thronging  round  him  : 
the  tears  are  running  down  their  cheeks  : their  eyes  are 
.fixed  ; their  very  breath  is  still ; for  he  is  telling  how  Priam 
lell  at  the  feet  of  Achilles,  and  kissed  those  hands, — the 
terrible, — the  murderous, — which  had  slain  so  many  of  his 
sons.*  We  enter  the  public  place  ; there  is  a ring  of  youths, 
all  leaning  forward,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  gestures  of 
expectation.  Socrates  is  pitted  against  the  famous  atheist, 
from  Ionia,  and  has  just  brought  him  to  a contradiction  in 
terms.  But  we  are  interrupted.  The  herald  is  crying — 
“ Room  for  the  Prytanes.”  The  general  assembly  is  to 
meet.  The  people  are  SAvarming  in  on  every  side.  Proc- 
lamation is  made — “ Who  wishes  to  speak.”  There  is  a 
shout,  and  a clapping  of  hands ; Pericles  is  mounting  the 
stand.  Then  for  a jday  of  Sojihocles;  and  away  to  sup 
Avith  Aspasia.  I knoAV  of  no  modern  university  which  has 
so  excellent  a system  of  education. 

Knowledge  thus  acquired  and  opinions  thus  formed  were, 
indeed,  likely  to  be,  in  some  respects,  defecth^e.  Proposi- 
tions Avhich  are  advanced  in  discourse  generally  result  from 
a partial  AueAV  of  the  question,  and  cannot  be  kept  under 
examination  long  enough  to  be  corrected.  Men  of  great 
conversational  poAvers  almost  universally  practise  a sort  of 
lively  sophistry  and  exaggeration,  Avhich  deceives,  for  the 
moment,  both  themselves  and  their  auditors.  Thus  we  see 
doctrines,  Avhicli  cannot  bear  a close  inspection,  triumph  per- 
petually in  draAving-rooms,  in  debating  societies,  and  even 
in  legislath^e  or  judicial  assemblies.  To  the  conversational 
education  of  the  Athenians  I am  inclined  to  attribute  the 
great  looseness  of  reasoning  Avhich  is  remarkable  in  most  of 
tlieir  scientific  writings.  Even  the  most  illogical  of  modern 
writers  would  stand  perfectly  aghast  at  the  puerile  fallacies 
Avhich  seem  to  have  deluded  some  of  the  greatest  men  of 
antiquity.  Sir  Thomas  Lethbridge  Avould  stare  at  the 
political  economy  of  Xenophon ; and  the  author  of  Soirees 
de  Peter shourg  would  be  ashamed  of  some  of  the  metaphysi- 
cal arguments  of  Plato.  But  the  A’ery  circumstances  which 
retarded  the  growth  of  science  Avere  peculiarly  favorable 
to  the  culth^ation  of  eloquence . From  the  early  habit  of 
taking  a share  in  animated  discussion  the  intelligent  student 

• ■ — — Ktu  Kvae 


112  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

would  derive  that  readiness  of  resource,  that  copiousness  of 
language,  and  that  knowledge  of  the  temj)er  and  under- 
standing of  an  audience,  which  are  far  more  valuable  to  an 
orator  than  the  greatest  logical  powers. 

Horace  has  prettily  compared  poems  to  those  paintings 
of  which  the  effect  varies  as  the  spectator  changes  his  stand. 
The  same  remark  applies  with  at  least  equal  justice  to 
speeches.  They  must  be  read  with  the  temper  of  those  to 
whom  they  were  addressed,  or  they  must  necessarily  appear 
to  offend  against  the  laws  of  taste  and  reason ; as  the  finest 
picture,  seen  in  a light  different  from  that  for  which  it  was 
designed,  will  appear  fit  only  for  a sign.  This  is  perpetually 
forgotten  by  those  who  criticise  oratory.  Because  they  are 
reading  at  leisure,  pausing  at  every  line,  reconsidering  every 
argument,  they  forget  that  the  hearers  were  hurried  from 
point  to  point  too  rapidly  to  detect  the  fallacies  through 
which  they  were  conducted  ; that  they  had  no  time  to  dis- 
entangle sophisms,  or  to  notice  slight  inaccuracies  of  expres- 
sion; that  elaborate  excellence,  either  of  reasoning  or  of 
language,  would  have  been  absolutely  thrown  away.  To 
recur  to  the  analogy  of  the  sister  art,  these  connoisseurs 
examine  a panorama  through  a microscope,  and  quarrel  with 
a scene-painter  because  he  does  not  give  to  his  work  the 
exquisite  finish  of  Gerard  Dow. 

Oratory  is  to  be  estimated  on  principles  different  from 
those  which  are  applied  to  other  productions.  Truth  is  the 
object  of  philosophy  and  history.  Truth  is  the  object  even 
of  those  works  which  are  peculiarly  called  works  of  fiction, 
but  which,  in  fact,  bear  the  same  relation  to  history  which 
algebra  bears  to  arithmetic.  The  merit  of  poetry,  in  its 
wildest  forms,  still  consists  in  its  truth, — truth  conveyed  to 
the  understanding,  not  directly  by  the  words,  but  circui- 
tously by  means  of  imaginative  associations,  which  serve  as 
its  conductors.  The  object  of  oratory  alone  is  not  truth, 
but  persuasion.  The  admiration  of  the  multitude  does  not 
make  Moore  a greater  poet  than  Coleridge,  or  Beattie  a 
greater  philosopher  than  Berkeley.  But  the  criterion  of 
eloquence  is  different.  speaker  who  exhausts  the  whole 
philosophy  of  a question,  who  displays  every  grace  of  style, 
yet  produces  no  effect  on  his  audience,  may  be  a great 
essayist,  a great  statesman,  a great  master  of  composition  ; 
but  he  is  not  an  oratoA  If  he  miss  the  mark,  it  makes  no 
differeuoe  whether  have  taken  aim  too  high  or  too  low- 


ON  THE  ATHENIAN  ORATORS. 


113 


The  effect  of  the  great  freedom  of  the  press  in  England 
has  been,  in  a great  measure,  to  destroy  this  distinction, 
and  to  leave  among  us  little  of  what  I call  Oratory  Proper. 
Our  legislators,  our  candidates,  on  great  occasions  even  our 
advocates,  address  themselves  less  to  the  audience  than  to 
tlie  reporters.  They  think  less  of  the  few  hearers  than  of 
the  innumerable  readers.  At  Athens  the  case  was  different ; 
there  the  only  object  of  the  speaker  was  immediate  convic- 
tion and  persuasion.  He,  therefore,  who  would  justly  ap- 
preciate the  merit  of  the  Grecian  orators  should  place  him- 
self, as  nearly  as  possible,  in  the  situation  of  their  auditors  : 
he  should  divest  himself  of  his  modern  feelings  and  acquire- 
ments, and  make  the  prejudices  and  interests  of  the 
Athenian  citizen  his  own.  He  who  studies  their  w’orks  in 
this  spirit  will  find  that  many  of  those  things  which,  to  an 
Elnglish  reader,  appear  to  be  blemishes, — the  frequent  viola- 
tion of  those  excellent  rules  of  evidence  by  which  our  courts 
of  law  are  regulated, — the  introduction  of  extraneous  matter, 
— the  reference  to  considerations  of  political  expediency  in 
judicial  investigations, — the  assertions,  without  proof, — the 
passionate  entreaties, — the  furious  invectives, — are  really 
proofs  of  the  prudence  and  address  of  the  speakers.  Ho 
must  not  dwell  maliciously  on  arguments  or  phrases,  but 
acquiesce  in  his  first  impressions.  It  requires  repeated 
perusal  and  reflection  to  decide  rightly  on  any  other  portion 
of  literature.  But  with  respect  to  works  of  which  the  merit 
depends  on  their  instantaneous  effect  the  most  hasty  judg- 
ment is  likely  to  be  best. 

The  history  of  eloquence  at  Athens  is  remarkable.  From 
a very  early  period  great  speakers  had  flourished  there. 
Pisistratus  and  Themistocles  are  said  to  have  owed  much  of 
their  influence  to  their  talents  for  debate.  We  learn,  with 
more  certainty,  that  Pericles  was  distinguished  by  extra- 
ordinary oratorical  powers.  The  substance  of  some  of  his 
eeches  is  transmitted  to  us  by  Thucydides;  and  that 
excellent  writer  has  doubtless  faithfully  reported  the  general 
line  of  his  arguments.  But  the  manner,  which  in  oratory  is 
of  at  least  as  much  consequence  as  the  matter,  was  of  no 
importance  to  his  narration.  It  is  evident  that  he  has  not 
attempted  to  preserve  it.  Throughout  his  work,  every 
speech  on  every  subject,  whatever  may  have  been  the  char- 
acter or  the  dialect  of  the  speaker,  is  in  exactly  the  same 
form.  The  grave  king  of  Sparta,  the  furious  demagogue  of 
Athens,  tho  general  cmcouraging  his  army,  the  captive  sup^ 
You  I.— 8 


114  Macaulay’s  miscellankous  writings. 

|)licatiiig  for  liis  life,  all  are  represented  as  speakers  5n  one 
unvaried  style, — a style  moreover  wholly  unfit  for  oratorical 
purposes.  Ilis  mode  of  reasoning  is  singularly  elliptical, — 
in  reality  most  consecutive, — yet  in  appearance  often  in- 
coherent. Ilis  meaning,  in  itself  sufficiently  ])erplexing,  is 
compressed  into  tlie  fewest  possible  words.  Ilis  great  fond- 
ness for  antithetical  expression  has  not  a little  conduced  to 
this  effect.  Every  one  must  have  observed  how  much  more 
the  sense  is  condensed  in  the  verses  of  Pope  and  his  imita- 
tors, who  never  ventured  to  continue  the  same  clause  from 
couplet  to  couplet,  than  in  those  of  poets  who  allow  them- 
selves that  license.  Every  artificial  division,  Avhich  is 
strongly  marked,  and  which  frequently  recurs,  has  the  same 
tendency.  The  natural  and  perspicuous  expression  which 
spontaneously  rises  to  the  mind  will  often  refuse  to  accom- 
modate itself  to  such  a form.  It  is  necessary  either  to 
expand  it  into  weakness,  or  to  compress  it  into  almost  im- 
penetrable density.  The  latter  is  generally  the  choice  of  an 
able  man,  and  was  assuredly  the  choice  of  Thucydides. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  such  speeches  could 
never  have  been  delivered.  They  are  perhaj)s  among  the 
most  difficult  passages  in  the  Greek  language,  and  would 
probably  have  been  scarcely  more  intelligible  to  an  Athenian 
auditor  than  to  a modern  reader.  Their  obscurity  was 
acknowledged  by  Cicero,  who  was  as  intimate  with  the 
literature  and  language  of  Greece  as  the  most  accomplished 
of  its  natives,  and  who  seems  to  have  held  a respectable 
rank  among  the  Greek  authors.  Their  difficulty  to  a modern 
reader  lies,  not  in  the  words,  but  in  the  reasoning.  A 
dictionary  is  of  far  less  use  in  studying  them  than  a clear 
head  and  a close  attention  to  the  context.  They  are  valu- 
able to  the  scholar  as  displaying,  beyond  almost  any  other 
compositions,  the  powers  of  the  finest  of  languages : they 
are  valuable  to  the  philosopher  as  illustrating  the  morals  and 
manners  of  a most  interesting  age  : they  abound  in  just 
thought  and  energetic  expression.  But  they  do  not  enable 
us  to  form  any  accurate  opinion  on  the  merks  of  the  early 
Greek  orators. 

Though  it  cannot  be  doubted  that,  before  the  Persian 
wars,  Athens  had  produced  eminent  speakers,  yet  the  period 
during  wliich  eloquence  most  flourishcvl  among  her  citizens 
w^as  by  no  means  that  of  her  greatest  power  and  glory.  It 
commenced  at  the  close  of  the  Peloponnesian  war.  In  fact, 
the  steps  by  wbieb  Atbsaiau  oratory  appi  cached  to  its 


ON  THE  ATHENIAN  ORATORS. 


115 


fiiiislied  excenenco  seem  to  have  been  almost  contempo- 
raneous witli  those  by  which  the  Atlieiiiaii  character  and  the 
Athenian  em})ire  sunk  to  degradation.  At  the  time  when 
the  little  commonwealth  achieved  those  victories  which 
twenty-five  eventful  centuries  have  left  unequalled,  eloquence 
was  in  its  infancy.  The  deliverers  of  Greece  became  its 
plunderers  and  oppressors.  Unmeasured  exaction,  atrocious 
vengeance,  the  madness  of  the  multitude,  the  tyranny  of 
the  great,  filled  the  Cyclades  with  tears,  and  blood,  and 
mourning.  The  sword  unpeopled  whole  islands  in  a day. 
The  plough  passed  over  the  ruins  of  famous  cities.  The 
imperial  republic  sent  forth  her  children  by  thousands  to 
pine  in  the  quarries  of  Syracuse,  or  to  feed  the  vultures  of 
^gospotami.  She  was  at  length  reduced  by  famine  and 
slaughter  to  humble  herself  before  her  enemies,  and  to  ])ur- 
chase  existence  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  emiDire  and  her  laws. 
During  these  disastrous  and  gloomy  years,  oratory  was 
advancing  towards  its  highest  excellence.  And  it  was  when 
the  moral,  the  political,  and  the  military  character  of  the 
people  was  most  utterly  degraded,  it  was  when  the  viceroy 
of  a Macedonian  sovereign  gave  law  to  Greece,  that  the 
courts  of  Athens  witnessed  the  most  splendid  contest  of 
eloquence  that  the  world  has  ever  known. 

The  causes  of  this  phenomenon  it  is  not,  I think,  diffi- 
cult to  assign.  The  division  of  labor  operates  on  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  orator  as  it  does  on  those  of  the  mechanic. 
It  was  remarked  by  the  ancients  that  the  Pentathlete,  who 
divided  his  attention  between  several  exercises,  though  he 
could  not  vie  with  a boxer  in  the  use  of  the  cestus,  or  with 
one  who  had  confined  his  attention  to  running  in  the  con- 
test of  the  stadium,  yet  enjoyed  far  greater  general  vigor 
and  health  than  either.  It  is  the  same  with  the  mind.  The 
superiority  in  technical  skill  is  often  more  than  compensated 
by  the  inferiority  in  general  intelligence.  And  this  is  pecu- 
liarly the  case  in  politics.  States  have  always  been  best 
goverped  by  men  who  have  taken  a wide  viaw  of  putdi^c^ 
affairs,  ajid  who  have  rather  a general  acquaintance  ..with 
many  sciences  than  a perfect  mastm'y;  of  The  union  of 

the  politiclil  and  mllitary'd^'lKmen  in  Greece  contributed 
not  a little  to  the  splendor  of  its  early  history.  After  their 
separation  more  skilful  generals  and  greater  speakers  ap- 
peared ; but  the  breed  of  statesmen  dwindled  and  became 
almost  extinct.  Themistocles  or  Pericles  would  have  been 
no  match  for  Demosthenes  in  the  assembly,  or  for  Iphicratea 


116 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


in  the  field.  But  surely  they  were  incom  jiariihly  better  fitted 
than  either  for  the  supreme  direction  of  affairs. 

There  is  indeed  a remarkable  coincidence  between  the 
progress  of  the  art  of  war,  and  that  of  the  art  of  oratory, 
among  the  Greeks.  They  both  advanced  to  perfection  by 
contemporaneous  steps,  and  from  similar  causes.  The  early 
sj>eakers,  like  the  early  warriors  of  Greece,  were  merely  a 
militia.  It  was  found  that  in  both  employments  practice 
and  discipline  gave  superiority.*  Each  pursuit,  therefore, 
became  first  an  art,  and  then  a trade.  In  proportion  as  the 
professors  of  each  became  more  expert  in  their  particular 
craft,  they  became  less  respectable  in  their  general  character. 
Their  skill  had  been  obtained  at  too  great  expense  to  bo 
employed  only  from  disinterested  views.  Thus,  the  soldiers 
forgot  that  they  were  citizens,  and  the  orators  that  they 
were  statesmen.  I know  not  to  what  Demosthenes  and  his 
famous  contemporaries  can  be  so  justly  compared  as  to 
those  mercenary  troops  who,  in  their  time,  overran  Greece; 
or  those  who,  from  similar  causes,  were  some  centuries  ago 
the  scourge  of  the  Italian  republics, — perfectly  acquainted 
with  every  part  of  their  profession,  irresistible  in  the  field, 
powerful  to  defend  or  to  destroy,  but  defending  without 
love,  and  destroying  without  hatred.  We  may  despise  the 
characters  of  these  political  Condottieri ; but  it  is  impos- 
sible to  examine  the  system  of  their  tactics  without  being 
amazed  at  its  perfection. 

I had  intended  to  proceed  to  this  examination,  and  to 
consider  separately  the  remains  of  Lysias,  of  uEschines,  of 
Demosthenes,  and  of  Isocrates,  who,  though  strictly  speaking 
he  was  rather  a pamphleteer  than  an  orator,  deserves,  on 
many  accounts,  a place  in  such  a disquisition.  The  length 

♦ It  has  often  occurred  to  me,  that  to  the  circumstances  mentioned  in  the  text 
is  to  be  referred  one  of  the  most  remarkable  events  in  Grecian  history  ; I mean 
the  silent  but  rapid  downfall  of  the  Lacedaemonian  power.  Soon  after  the  termi- 
nation ot  the  Peloponnesian  war,  the  strength  of  Lacedaemon  began  to  decline. 
Its  military  discipline,  its  social  institutions,  were  the  same.  Agesilaus,  during 
whose  reign  the  change  took  place,  was  the  ablest  of  its  kings.  Yet  the  Spartan 
armies  were  frequently  defeated  in  pitched  battles.— an  occurrence  considered 
impossible  in  the  earliei‘ages  of  Greece.  They  are  allowed  to  have  fdhght  most 
l)ravely  ; yet  they'  were  no  longer  attended  by  the  success  to  which  they  had 
formerly  been  accustomed.  No  solution  of  these  circumstances  is  offered,  as  far 
as  I know,  by  any  ancient  author.  The  real  cause,  I conceive,  was  this.  The 
Lacedaemonians,  alone  among  the  Greeks,  formed  a permanent  standing  army. 
While  the  citizens  of  other  commonwealths  were  engaged  in  agriculture  and 
trade,  they  had  no  employment  whatever  but  the  study  of  military  discipline. 
Hence,  during  the  Persian  and  Peloponnesian  wars,  they  had  that  advantage 
over  their  neighbors  which  regular  troops  always  possess  over  militia.  This  ad- 
vantage they  lost,  when  other  states  began,  at  a later  period,  to  employ  merce- 
nary forces,  who  were  probably  as  superior  *;o  them  iu  the  art  of  war  as  they  had 
hitherto  been  to  their  antagonists. 


A pnOPBTETlC  ACCOUKT  OP  Al^  EPIC  POEM.  117 

of  my  prolegomena  and  digressions  compels  me  to  postpone 
this  part  of  the  subject  to  another  occasion.  A Magazine 
is  certainly  a delightful  invention  for  a very  idle  or  a very 
busy  man.  He  is  not  compelled  to  complete  his  plan  or 
to  adhere  to  his  subject.  He  may  ramble  as  far  as  he  is 
inclined,  and  stop  as  soon  as  he  is  tired.  No  one  takes  the 
trouble  to  recollect  his  contradictory  opinions  or  his  unre- 
deemed pledges.  He  may  be  as  superficial,  as  inconsistent, 
and  as  careless  as  he  chooses.  Magazines  laesemble  those 
little  angels,  who,  according  to  the  pretty  Rabbinical  tradi- 
tion, are  generated  e\ery  morning  by  the  brook  which  rolls 
over  the  flowers  of  Paradise, — whose  life  is  a song, — who 
warble  till  sunset,  and  then  sink  back  without  regret  into 
nothingness.  Such  spirits  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  de- 
tecting spear  of  Itliuriel  or  the  victorious  sword  of  Michael 
It  is  enough  for  them  to  please  and  be  forgotten. 


A PROPHETIC  ACCOUNT  OF  .A  GRAND  NATION- 
AL EPIC  POEM,  TO  BE  ENTITLED  “THE 
WELLINGTONIAD  ” AND  TO  BE  PUBLISHED 
A.  D.  2824. 

{KnighVs  Quarterly  Magazine^  November,  1824.) 

How  I became  a prophet  it  is  not  very  important  to  the 
reader  to  know.  Nevertheless  I feel  all  the  anxiety  wnich, 
under  similar  circumstances,  troubled  the  sensitive  mind  of 
Sidrophel;  and,  like  him,  am  eager  to  vindicate  myself  from 
the  suspicion  of  having  practised  forbidden  arts,  or  held 
intercourse  with  beings  of  another  world.  I solemnly  de- 
clare, therefore,  that  I never  saw  a ghost,  like  Lord  Lyttle- 
ton  ; consulted  a gypsy,  like  Josephine  ; or  heard  my  name 
pronouced  by  an  absent  person,  like  Dr.  Johnson.  Though 
it  is  now  almost  as  usual  for  gentlemen  to  appear  at  the  mo- 
ment of  their  death  to  their  friends  as  to  call  on  them  during 
tlieir  life,  none  of  my  acquaintance  have  been  so  polite  as  to 
pay  me  that  customary  attention.  I have  derived  my 
knowledge  neither  from  the  dead  nor  from  the  living; 
neither  from  the  lines  of  a hand,  nor  from  the  grounds  of  a 
tea-cup  ; neither  from  the  stars  of  the  firmament,  nor  from 


118 


Macaulay’s  misckllankous  \yuitixgs. 


tlio  IioikIs  of  tlio  al)yss.  T liavo  never,  like  llu'  Wesley 
tjimily,  heard  “ that  inii^hty  l(‘a<linL^  ^\  ho  drew  after 

liim  the  third  |>art  of  lu‘aven’s  sons,”  scratching  in  my  cup- 
board. I have  never  been  enticed  to  sign  any  of  those  de- 
lusive bonds  wliicli  have  been  the  ruin  of  so  many  poor 
creatures;  and,  having  always  been  an  indifferent  horse- 
man, I liave  been  careful  not  to  venture  myself  on  a broora- 
Ft  ick. 

My  insight  into  futurity,  like  that  of  George  Fox  the 
piaker,  and  that  of  our  great  and  philosophic  poet,  Lord 
Byron,  is  derived  from  simple  presentiment.  This  is  a far 
less  artificial  jirocess  than  those  which  are  employed  by 
some  others.  Yet  my  predictions  wall,  I believe,  be  found 
more  correct  than  their’s,  or,  at  all  events,  as  Sir  Benjamin 
Backbite  says  in  the  play,  more  circumstantial.” 

I ])rophesy,  then,  that,  in  tlie  year  2824,  according  to 
our  present  reckoning,  a grand  national  Epic  Poem,  worthy 
to  be  compared  with  the  Iliad,  the  .^neid,  or  the  Jerusalem, 
will  be  published  in  London. 

Men  naturally  take  an  interest  in  the  adventures  ot  every 
eminent  writer.  I will,  therefore,  gratify  the  laudable  curi- 
osity, which,  on  this  occasion,  will  doubtless  be  universal, 
by  prefixing  to  my  account  of  the  poem  a concise  memoir 
of  the  poet. 

Richard  Quongti  wdll  be  born  at  Westminster  on  the 
1st  of  July,  2786.  He  will  be  the  younger  son  of  the  younger 
branch  of  one  of  the  most  respectable  families  in  England. 
He  will  be  lineally  descended  from  Quongti,  the  famous 
Chinese  liberal,  who,  after  the  failure  of  the  heroic  attempt 
of  his  party  to  obtain  a constitution  from  the  Emperor  Fim 
Fam,  will  take  refuge  in  England,  in  the  twenty-third 
century.  Here  his  descendants  will  obtain  considerable 
note ; and  one  branch  of  the  family  will  be  raised  to  the 
peerage. 

Richard,  however,  though  destined  to  exalt  his  family 
to  distinction  far  nobler  than  any  which  wealth  or  titles  can 
bestow,  will  be  born  to  a very  scanty  fortune.  He  will  dis- 
play in  his  early  youth  such  striking  talents  as  will  attract 
the  notice  of  Viscount  Quongti,  his  third  cousin,  then  secre- 
tary of  State  for  the  Staem  Department.  At  the  expense  of 
this  eminent  nobleman,  he  will  be  sent  to  prosecute  his 
studies  at  the  university  of  Tombuctoo.  To  that  illustrious 
seat  of  the  muses  all  the  ingenuous  youth  of  every  country 
will  then  be  attracted  by  the  high  scientific  character  of 


\ PROPHETIC  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EPIC  POEM.  ilc9 

P\  ofessor  Quashaboo,  and  the  eminent  literary  attainments 
of  Professor  Kissey  Kickey.  In  spite  of  this  formidable  com- 
petition, however,  Quongti  will  acquire  the  highest  honors 
in  every  department  of  knowledge,  and  will  obtain  the 
esteem  of  his  associates  by  his  amiable  and  unaffected  man- 
ners. The  guardians  of  the  young  Duke  of  Carrington, 
premier  peer  of  England,  and  the  last  remaining  scion  of 
th«  ancient  and  illustrious  house  of  Smith,  will  be  desirous 
to  secure  so  able  an  instructor  for  their  v^ard.  With  the 
Duke,  Quongti  will  perform  the  grand  tour,  and  visit  the 
polished  courts  of  Sydney  and  Capetown.  After  prevailing 
on  his  pupil,  with  great  difficulty,  to  subdue  a violent  and 
imprudent  passion  which  he  had  conceived  for  a Hottentot 
lacty,  of  great  beauty  and  accomplishments  indeed,  but  of 
dubious  character,  he  will  travel  with  him  to  the  United 
States  of  America.  But  that  tremendous  war  which  will 
be  fatal  to  American  liberty  wdll,  at  that  time,  be  raging 
through  the  whole  federation.  At  New  York  the  travellers 
will  hear  of  the  final  defeat  and  death  of  the  illustrious 
champion  of  freedom,  Jonathan  Iligginbottom,  and  of  the 
elevation  of  Ebenezer  Ilogsflesh  to  the  perpetual  Presidency. 
They  will  not  choose  to  proceed  in  a journey  which  would 
expose  them  to  the  insults  of  that  brutal  soldiery,  whose 
cruelty  and  rapacity  will  have  devastated  Mexico  and  Colom- 
bia, and  now,  at  length,  enslaved  their  own  country. 

On  their  return  to  England,  a.  d.  2810,  the  death  of  the 
Duke  will  compel  his  preceptor  to  seek  for  a subsistence  by 
literary  labors.  His  fame  will  be  raised  by  many  small 
productions  of  considerable  merit ; and  he  will  at  last  obtain 
a permanent  place  in  the  highest  class  of  writers  by  his  great 
epic  poem. 

This  celebrated  Tvork  will  become,  with  unexampled  ra- 
pidity, a popular  favorite.  Tlie  sale  will  be  so  beneficial  to 
the  author  that,  instead  of  going  about  the  dirty  streets  on 
his  velocipede,  he  will  be  enabled  to  set  up  his  balloon. 

The  character  of  this  noble  poem  will  be  so  finely  and 
justly  given  in  the  Tombuctoo  Review  for  April,  2825,  that 
I cannot  refrain  from  translating  the  passage.  The  author 
will  be  our  poet’s  old  preceptor.  Professor  Kissey  Kickey. 

“In  pathos,  in  splendor  of  language,  in  sweetness  oi 
versification,  Mr.  Quongti  has  long  been  considered  as  un- 
rivalled. In  his  exquisite  poem  on  the  OrnithoryneJms  Par* 
adoxus  all  these  qualities  are  displayed  in  their  greatest  per- 
fection, How  exquisitely  does  that  work  arrest  and  em- 


120 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


body  tlie  mulefined  and  va^iie  shadows  which  flit  over  an 
imaginative  mind.  The  cold  worldling  may  net  comprehend 
it;  but  it  will  find  a response  in  the  bosom  of  every  youthful 
poet,  of  every  enthusiastic  lover  who  lias  seen  an  Orni- 
thorynchus  Paradoxus  by  moonliglit.  But  we  were  yet  to 
learn  that  he  possessed  the  comprehension,  the  judgment,  and 
the  fertility  of  mind  indispensable  to  the  epic  ])oet. 

“It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a plot  more  perfect  than  that 
of  the  ‘ Wellingtoniad.’  It  is  most  faithful  to  the  manners 
of  the  age  to  which  it  relates.  It  preserves  exactly  all  the 
historical  circumstances,  and  interweaves  them  most  artfully 
with  all  the  speciosa  miracula  of  supernatural  agency.” 
Thus  far  the  learned  Professor  of  Humanity  in  the  uni- 
versity of  Tombuctoo.  I fear  that  the  critics  of  our  time 
will  form  an  opinion  diametrically  opposite  as  to  these  very 
points.  Some  will,  I fear,  be  disgusted  by  the  machinery, 
which  is  derived  from  the  mythology  of  ancient  Greece.  I 
can  only  say  that  in  the  twenty-ninth  century,  that  machin- 
ery will  be  universally  in  use  among  poets  ; and  that  Quongti 
will  use  it,  partly  in  conformity  with  the  general  practice, 
and  partly  from  a veneration,  perhaps  excessive,  for  the  great 
remains  of  classical  antiquity,  which  AVill  then,  as  now,  be 
assiduously  read  by  every  man  of  education ; though  Tom 
Moore’s  songs  will  be  forgotten,  and  only  three  copies  of 
Lord  Byron’s  works  will  exist : one  in  the  possession  of  King 
George  the  Nineteenth,  one  in  the  Duke  of  Carrington’s 
collection,  and  one  in  the  library  of  the  British  Museum. 
Finally,  should  any  good  people  be  concerned  to  hear  that 
Pagan  fictions  will  so  long  retain  their  influence  over  litera- 
ture, let  them  reflect  that,  as  the  Bishop  of  St.  David’s  says, 
in  his  “Proofs  of  the  Inspiration  of  the  Sibylline  Verses,” 
read  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature, 
“ at  all  events,  a Pagan  is  not  a Papist.” 

Some  readers  of  the  present  day  may  think  that  Quongti 
is  by  no  means  entitled  to  the  compliments  which  his  Negro 
critic  pays  him  on  his  adherence  to  the  historical  circum- 
stances of  the  time  in  which  he  has  chosen  his  subject ; that, 
where  he  introduces  any  trait  of  our  manners,  it  is  in  the  wrong 
place,  and  that  he  confounds  the  customs  of  our  age  v/ith 
those  of  much  more  remote  periods.  I can  only  say  that  the 
charge  is  infinitely  more  applicable  to  Homer,  Virgil  and 
Tasso.  If,  therefore,  the  reader  should  detect,  in  the  follow- 
ing abstract  of  the  plot,  any  little  deviation  from  strict  his- 
torical accuracy,  let  him  reflect,  for  a moment,  whether 


A PROPHBTIC  ACCOUNT  OP  AN  EPIC  POEML 


121 


Agamemnon  would  not  liave  found  as  mucli  to  censure  in  the 
Iliad, — Ilido  in  the  ^neid, — or  Godfrey  in  the  Jerusalem. 
Let  him  not  suffer  his  opinions  to  depend  on  circumstances 
which  cannot  possibly  affect  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  the 
representation.  If  it  be  impossible  for  a single  man  to  kill 
hundreds  in  battle,  the  impossibility  is  not  diminished  by 
distance  of  time.  If  it  be  as  certain  that  Rinaldo  never  dis- 
enchanted a forest  in  Palestine  as  it  is  that  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  never  disenchanted  the  forest  of  Soignies,  can 
we,  as  rational  men,  tolerate  the  one  story  and  ridicule  the 
other  ? Of  this,  at  least,  I am  certain,  that  'vvhatever  excuse 
we  have  for  admiring  the  plots  of  those  famous  poems  our 
children  will  have  for  extolling  that  of  the  “ Wellingtoniad.” 

I shall  proceed  to  give  a sketch  of  the  narrative.  The 
subject  is  “ The  Reign  of  the  Hundred  Days.” 

BOOK  I. 

The  poem  commences,  in  form,  with  a solemn  proposition 
of  the  subject.  Then  the  muse  is  invoked  to  give  the  poet 
accurate  information  as  to  the  causes  of  so  terrible  a com- 
motion. The  answer  to  this  question,  being,  it  is  to  be  sup- 
posed, the  joint  production  of  the  poet  and  the  muse,  ascribes 
the  event  to  circumstances  which  have  hitherto  eluded  all  the 
research  of  political  writers,  namely,  the  influence  of  the  god 
Mars,  who,  we  are  told,  had  some  forty  years  before  usurped 
the  con j ugal  rights  of  old  Carlo  Buonaparte,  and  given  birth 
to  Napoleon.  By  his  incitement  it  was  that  the  emperor  with 
his  devoted  companions  was  now  on  the  sea,  returning  to  his 
ancient  dominions.  The  gods  were  at  present,  fortunately 
for  the  adventurer,  feasting  with  the  Ethiopians,  whose  en- 
tertainments, according  to  the  ancient  custom  described  by 
Homer,  they  annually  attended,  with  the  same  sort  of  con- 
descending  gluttony  which  now  carries  the  cabinet  to  Guild- 
hall on  the  9th  of  November.  Neptune  was,  in  consequence, 
absent,  and  unable  to  prevent  the  enemy  of  his  favorite 
island  from  crossing  his  element.  Boreas,  however,  who  had 
his  abode  on  the  banks  of  the  Russian  ocean,  and  who,  like 
Thetis  in  the  Iliad,  was  not  of  sufficient  quality  to  have  an 
invitation  to  Ethiopia,  resolves  to  destroy  the  armament; 
which  brings  war  and  danger  to  his  beloved  Alexander.  He 
accordingly  raises  a storm  which  is  most  powerfully  described. 
Napoleon  bewails  the  inglorious  fate  for  which  he  seems  to 
be  reserved.  “ Ob ! thrice  happy,”  says  he,  “ those  who  were 


122  Macaulay’s  AnscELLANEOus  writings. 

frozen  to  dcaili  at  Krasnoi,  or  slau^litenMl  at  Leipzig.  Oh, 
Kutiisoff,  l)ravest  of  th(‘  Kiissians,  wh(M’efore  was  I not  per- 
mitted to  fall  l>y  the  victoi  ious  swanal?^’  Jle  then  offers  a 
prayer  to  -^olus,  and  vows  to  him  a sacrifice  of  a black  ram. 
In  consequence,  the  god  recalls  his  turbulent  subject;  the  sea 
is  calmed  ; and  the  ship  anchors  in  the  port  of  Frejus.  No/- 
])oleon  and  Bertrand,  who  is  always  called  the  faithful  Ber- 
trand, land  to  explore  the  country ; Mars  meets  them  dis- 
guised as  a lancer  of  the  guard,  wearing  the  cross  of  the  legion 
of  honor.  He  advises  them  to  ajiply  for  necessaries  of  all 
kinds  to  the  governor,  shows  them  the  way,  and  disappears 
with  a strong  smell  of  gunpowder.  Napoleon  makes  a pa- 
thetic speech,  and  enters  the  governor’s  house.  Here  he 
sees  hanging  up  a fine  print  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  him- 
self in  the  foreground  giving  his  orders.  This  puts  him  in 
high  spirits ; he  advances  and  salutes  the  governor,  who  re- 
ceives him  most  loyally,  gives  him  an  entertainment,  and, 
according  to  the  usage  of  all  epic  hosts,  insists,  after  dinner, 
on  a full  narration  of  all  that  has  happened  to  him  since  the 
battle  of  Leipzig. 

BOOK  II. 

Napoleon  carries  his  narrative  from  the  battle  of  Leipzig 
to  his  abdication.  But,  as  we  shall  have  a great  quantity  of 
fighting  on  our  hands,  I think  it  best  to  omit  the  details. 

BOOK  III. 

Napoleon  describes  his  sojourn  at  Elba,  and  his  return , 
how  he  was  driven  by  stress  of  weather  to  Sardinia,  and 
fought  with  the  harpies  there;  how  he  was  then  carried 
southward  to  Sicily,  where  he  generously  took  on  board  an 
English  sailor,  whom  a man  of  war  had  unhappily  left  there, 
and  who  was  in  imminent  danger  of  being  devoured  by  the 
Cyclops ; how  he  landed  in  the  bay  of  Naples,  saw  the 
Sibyl,  and  descended  to  Tartarus  ; how  he  held  a long  and 
pathetic  conversation  with  Poniatowski,  whom  he  found 
wandering  unburied  on  the  banks  of  Styx  ; how  he  swore 
to  give  him  a splendid  funeral ; how  he  had  also  an  affec- 
tionate interview  with  Desaix ; how  Moreau  and  Sir  Ralph 
Abercrombie  fled  at  the  sight  of  him.  He  relates  that  he 
then  re-embarked,  and  met  with  nothing  of  importance  till 
the  commencement  of  the  storm  v/ith  which  the  poem 
opens. 


A prophetic;  account  of  an  epic  poem. 


123 


BOOK  IV. 

The  scene  changes  to  Paris.  Fame,  in  the  garb  of  an 
express,  brings  intelligence  of  the  landing  of  Napoleon.  The 
king  performs  a sacrifice  : but  the  entrails  are  unfavorable  ; 
and  the  victim  is  without  a heart.  He  prepares  to  encounter 
the  invader.  A young  captain  of  the  guard, — the  son  of 
Marie  Antoinette  by  Apollo, — in  the  shape  of  a fiddler, 
rushes  in  to  tell  him  that  Napoleon  is  approaching  with  a 
vast  army.  The  royal  forces  are  drawn  out  for  battle.  Full 
catalogues  are  given  of  the  regiments  on  both  sides;  their 
colonels,  lieutenant-colonels,  and  uniform. 

BOOK  V* 

The  king  comes  forward  and  defies  Napoleon  to  single 
combat.  Napoleon  accepts  it.  Sacrifices  are  offered.  The 
ground  is  measured  by  Ney  and  Macdonald.  The  com- 
batants advance.  Louis  snaps  his  pistol  in  vain.  The 
bullet  of  Napoleon,  on  the  contrary,  carries  off  the  tip  of  the 
king’s  ear.  Napoleon  then  rushes  on  him  sword  in  hand. 
But  Louis  snatches  up  a stone,  such  as  ten  men  of  those 
degenerate  days  will  be  unable  to  move,  and  hurls  it  at  his 
antagonist.  Mars  averts  it.  Napoleon  then  seizes  Louis, 
and  is  about  to  strike  a fatal  blow,  when  Bacchus  intervenes, 
like  Venus  in  the  third  book  of  the  Iliad,  bears  off  the  king 
in  a thick  cloud,  and  seats  him  in  an  hotel  at  Lille,  with  a 
bottle  of  Maraschino  and  a basin  of  soup  before  him.  Both 
armies  instantly  proclaim  Napoleon  emperor. 

BOOK  VI. 

Nettune,  returned  from  his  Ethiopian  revels,  sees  with 
rage  the  events  which  have  taken  place  in  Europe.  He  flies 
to  the  cave  of  Alecto,  and  drags  out  the  fiend,  commanding 
her  to  excite  universal  hostility  against  Napoleon.  Tlje 
Fury  repairs  to  Lord  Castlereagh  ; and,  as,  when  she  visited 
Turnus,  she  assumed  the  form  of  an  old  woman,  she  here  a]> 
pears  in  the  kindred  shape  of  Mr.  Vansittart,  and  in  an  impas- 
sioned address  exhorts  his  lordship  to  war.  His  lordship,  like 
Turnus,  treats  this  unwonted  monitor  wdth  great  disrespect, 
tells  him  that  he  is  an  old  doting  fool,  and  advises  him  to 
look  after  the  ways  ane  means,  and  leave  questions  of  peace 
and  war  to  his  betters.  ‘T  le  Fury  then  displays  all  her 
terrors.  The  neat  pov^dered  hair  bristles  up  into  snakes; 


124  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

the  black  stockings  appear  clotted  with  blood  ; and,  bran 
dishing  a torch,  she  announces  her  name  and  mission.  Lord 
Castku-eagli,  seized  with  fury,  flies  instantly  to  the  Parliar 
ment,  and  recommends  war  with  a torrent  of  eloquent  in- 
vective. All  the  members  instantly  clamor  for  vengeance, 
seize  their  arms  which  are  hanging  round  the  walls  of  the 
house,  and  rush  forth  to  prepare  for  instant  hostilities. 

BOOK  VII. 

In  this  book  intelligence  arrives  at  London  of  the  flight 
of  the  Duchess  d’Angouleme  from  France.  It  is  stated  that 
this  heroine,  armed  from  head  to  foot,  defended  Bordeaux 
against  the  adherents  of  Napoleon,  and  that  she  fought 
hand  to  hand  with  Clausel,  and  beat  him  down  with  an 
enormous  stone.  Deserted  by  her  followers,  she  at  last,  like 
Turnus,  plunged,  armed  as  she  was,  into  the  Garonne,  and 
swam  to  an  English  ship  which  lay  off  the  coast.  This  in- 
telligence yet  more  inflames  the  English  to  war. 

A yet  bolder  flight  than  any  which  has  been  mentioned 
follows.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  goes  to  take  leave  of  the 
duchess  ; and  a scene  passes  quite  equal  to  the  famous  inter- 
view of  Hector  and  Andromache.  Lord  Douro  is  frightened 
at  his  father’s  feather,  but  begs  for  his  epaulette. 

BOOK  VIIL 

Neptune,  trembling  for  the  eveiiC  of  the  war,  implores 
Venus,  who,  as  the  offspring  of  his  element,  naturally  vener- 
ates him,  to  procure  from  Vulcan  a deadly  sword  and  a 
pair  of  unerring  pistols  for  the  duke.  They  are  accordingly 
made,  and  superbly  decorated.  The  sheath  of  the  sword, 
like  the  shield  of  Acliilles,  is  carved,  in  exquisitely  fine 
miniature,  with  scenes  from  the  common  life  of  the  period ; 
a dance  at  Almack’s,  a boxing  match  at  the  Fives-court,  a 
lord  mayor’s  procession,  and  a man  hanging.  All  these  are 
fully  and  elegantly  described.  The  duke  thus  armed  hastens 
to  Brussels. 

BOOK  IX 

The  duke  is  received  at  Brussels  by  the  King  of  the 
Netherlands  with  great  magnificence.  He  is  informed  of 
the  approach  of  the  armies  of  all  the  confederate  kings.  The 
poet,  however,  with  a laudable  zeal  for  the  glory  of  his 


A PROPHETIC  ACCOUNT  OP  AN  EPIC  POEM.  125 

country,  completely  passes  over  the  exploits  of  the  Austrians 
in  Italy,  and  the  discussions  of  the  congress.  England  and 
France,  Wellington  and  Napoleon,  almost  exclusively  occupy 
his  attention.  Several  days  are  spent  at  Brussels  in  revelry. 
The  English  heroes  astonish  their  allies  by  exhibiting  splen- 
did games,  similar  to  those  which  draw  the  flower  of  the 
British  aristocracy  to  Newmarket  and  Moulsey  Hurst,  and 
which  will  be  considered  by  our  descendants  with  as  much 
veneration  as  the  Olympian  and  Isthmian  contests  by  clas- 
sical students  of  the  present  time.  In  the  combat  of  the 
cestus,  Shaw,  the  life-guardsman,  vanquishes  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  and  obtains  a bull  as  a prize.  In  the  horse-race, 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  Lord  Uxbridge  ride  against 
each  other ; the  duke  is  victorious,  and  is  rewarded  with 
twelve  opera-girls.  On  the  last  day  of  the  festivities,  a 
splendid  dance  takes  place,  at  which  all  the  heroes  attend. 

BOOK  X. 

Mars,  seeing  the  English  army  thus  inactive,  hastens  to 
rouse  Napoleon,  who,  conducted  by  Night  and  Silence,  un- 
expectedly attacks  the  Prussians.  The  slaughter  is  immense. 
Napoleon  kills  many  whose  histories  and  families  are  hap- 
pily particularized.  He  slays  Herman,  the  craniologist,  who 
dwelt  by  the  linden-shadowed  Elbe,  and  measured  with  his 
eye  the  skulls  of  all  who  walked  through  the  streets  of 
Berlin.  Alas ! his  own  skull  is  now  cleft  by  the  Corsican 
sword.  Four  pupils  of  the  University  of  Jena  advance  to- 
gether to  encounter  the  emperor ; at  four  blows  he  destroys 
them  all.  Blucher  rushes  to  arrest  the  devastation  ; Napo- 
leon strikes  him  to  the  ground,  and  is  on  the  point  of  killing 
him,  but  Gneisenau,  Ziethen,  Bulow,  and  all  the  other  heroes 
of  the  Prussian  army,  gather  round  him,  and  bear  the  vener- 
able chief  to  a distance  from  the  field.  The  slaughter  is 
continued  till  night.  In  the  mean  time  Neptune  has  de- 
spatched Fame  to  bear  the  intelligence  to  the  duke,  who 
is  dancing  at  Brussels.  The  whole  army  is  put  in  motion. 
The  Duke  of  Brunswick’s  horse  speaks  to  admonish  him  of 
his  danger,  but  in  vain. 


BOOK  XI. 

PiCTON,  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  and  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  engage  Ney  at  Quatre  Bras.  Ney  kills  the  Duke 
of  Brunswick,  and  strips  him,  sending  his  belt  to  Napoleon. 


126 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


The  Englisli  full  hack  on  Waterloo.  Jupiter  calls  a council 
of  the  gods,  and  commands  tliat  none  shall  interfere  on 
either  side.  Mars  and  Neptune  make  very  eloquent 
speeches.  The  battle  of  Waterloo  commences.  Napoleon 
kills  Picton  and  Delaney.  Ney  engages  Ponsonby  and  kills 
him.  The  Prince  of  Orange  is  wounded  by  Soult.  Lord 
Uxbridge  flies  to  check  the  carnage.  He  is  severely  wound- 
ed by  Napoleon,  and  only  saved  by  the  assistance  of  Lord 
Hill.  In  the  mean  time  the  duke  makes  a tremendous  car- 
nage among  the  French.  He  encounters  General  Duhesme 
and  vanquishes  him,  but  spares  his  life.  He  kills  Toubert, 
who  kept  the  gaming-house  in  the  Palais  Royal,  and 
Maroiiet,  who  loved  to  spend  whole  nights  in  drinking 
champagne.  Clerval,  who  had  been  hooted  from  the  stage, 
and  had  then  become  a captain  in  the  Imperial  Guard, 
wished  that  he  had  still  continued  to  face  the  more  harm- 
less enmity  of  the  Parisian  pit.  But  Larrey,  the  son  of  Escu- 
lapius,  whom  his  father  had  instructed  in  all  the  secrets  of 
his  art,  and  who  was  surgeon-general  of  the  French  army, 
embraced  the  knees  of  the  destroyer,  and  conjured  him 
not  to  give  death  to  one  whose  office  it  was  to  give  life. 
The  duke  raised  him,  and  bade  him  live. 

But  we  must  hasten  to  the  close.  Napoleon  rushes  to 
encounter  Wellington.  Both  armies  stand  in  mute  amaze. 
The  heroes  fire  their  pistols ; that  of  Napoleon  misses,  but 
that  of  Wellington,  formed  by  the  hand  of  Vulcan,  and 
primed  by  the  Cyclops,  wounds  the  emperor  in  the  thigh, 
lie  flies,  and  takes  refuge  among  his  troops.  The  flight  be- 
comes promiscuous.  The  arrival  of  the  Prussians,  from  a 
motive  of  patriotism,  the  poet  completely  passes  over. 

BOOK  XII. 

Things  are  now  hastening  to  the  catastrophe.  Napoleon 
flies  to  London,  and,  seating  himself  on  the  hearth  of  the 
regent,  embraces  the  household  gods,  and  conjures  him,  by 
the  venerable  age  of  George  III.,  and  by  the  opening  per- 
fections of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  to  spare  him.  The 
prince  is  inclined  to  do  so  ; when,  looking  on  his  breast,  he 
sees  there  the  belt  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick.  He  instantly 
drawls  his  sword,  and  is  about  to  stab  the  destroyer  of  his 
kinsman.  Piety  and  hospitality,  however,  restrain  his  hand. 
He  takes  a middle  course,  and  condemns  Napoleon  to  be  ex- 
posed on  a desert  island.  Tlie  King  of  France  re-entera 
Paris ; and  the  poem  concludes. 


ON  MITFOKd’s  aiSTOKT  OF  GKBffiCB. 


12t 


ON  MITFORD’S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 

( KnighVs  Quarterly  Magazine j Novemher,  1824. ) 

This  is  a book  which  enjoys  a great  and  increasing  popn 
larity : but,  while  it  has  attracted  a considerable  share  of  the 
public  attention,  it  has  been  little  noticed  by  the  critics.  Mr. 
jVIitford  has  almost  succeeded  in  mounting,  unperceived  by 
those  whose  office  it  is  to  watch  such  aspirants,  to  a high  place 
among  historians.  He  has  taken  a seat  on  the  dais  without 
being  challenged  by  a single  seneschal.  To  oppose  the  pro- 
gress of  his  fame  is  now  almost  a hopeless  enterprise.  Had 
he  been  reviewed  with  candid  severity,  when  he  had  pub- 
lished only  his  first  volume,  his  work  would  either  have  de- 
served its  reputation,  or  would  never  have  obtained  it. 
‘‘  Then,”  as  Indra  says  of  Keliama,  ‘‘  then  was  the  time  to 
strike.”  The  time  was  neglected  ; and  the  consequence  is 
that  Mr.  Mitford,  like  Kehama,  has  laid  his  victorious  hand 
on  the  literary  Amreeta,  and  seems  about  to  taste  the  pre- 
cious elixir  of  immortality.  I shall  venture  to  emulate  the 
courage  of  the  honest  Glendoveer — 

“ When  now 

He  saw  the  Amreeta  in  Kehama’s  hand, 

An  impulse  that  defied  all  self-command, 

111  tiiat  extremity, 

Stung  him,  and  lie  resolved  to  seize  the  cup, 

And  dare  the  Uajah’s  force  in  Seeva’s  sight. 

Forward  he  sprung  to  tempt  the  unequal  fray.” 

In  plain  words,  I shall  offer  a few  considerations,  which  may 
tend  to  reduce  an  overpraised  writer  to  his  proper  level. 

The  principal  characteristic  of  this  historian,  the  origin 
Df  his  excellencies  and  his  defects,  is  a love  of  singularity. 
He  has  no  notion  of  going  with  a multitude  to  do  either 
good  or  evil.  An  exploded  opinion,  or  an  unpopular  person, 
has  an  irresistible  charm  for  liim.  The  same  perverseness 
may  be  traced  in  his  diction.  His  style  would  never  have  been 
elegant;  but  it  might  at  least  have  been  manly  and  perspicu- 
ous ; and  nothing  but  the  most  elaborate  care  could  possb 
bly  have  made  it  so  bad  as  it  is.  It  is  distinguished  by 
harsh  phrases,  strange  collocations,  occasional  solecisms,  fre- 
quent obscurity,  and.  above  all,  by  a peculiar  oddity,  which 


128  Macaulay’s  misckllaneous  ^vIlITINGS. 

can  no  more  be  described  tlian  it  can  l)e  overlooked.  Nor 
is  tills  all.  ]\Ir.  JMitford  ])i(j[ues  himself  on  spelling  better 
than  any  of  his  neighbors ; and  this  not  only  in  ancient 
names,  which  he  mangles  in  deiiance  both  of  custom  and  of 
reason,  but  in  the  most  ordinary  words  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. It  is,  in  itself,  a matter  perfectly  indifferent  whether 
we  call  a foreigner  by  the  name  which  he  bears  in  his  own 
language,  or  by  that  which  corresponds  to  it  in  ours ; whether 
we  say  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  or  Lawrence  de  Medici,  Jean 
Cbauvin,  or  John  Calvin.  In  such  cases  established  usage 
is  considered  as  law  by  all  writers  except  Mr.  Mitford.  If 
he  were  always  consistent  with  himself,  he  might  be  excused 
for  sometimes  disagreeing  with  his  neighbors  ; but  he  pro- 
ceeds on  no  principle  but  that  of  being  unlike  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Every  child  has  heard  of  Linnaeus ; therefore  Mr. 
Mitford  calls  him  Linne : Rousseau  is  known  all  over  Eu- 
rope as  Jean  Jacques ; therefore  Mr.  Mitford  bestows  on 
him  the  strange  appellation  of  John  James. 

Had  Mr.  Mitford  undertaken  a history  of  any  other 
country  than  Greece,  this  propensity  Avould  have  rendered 
his  work  useless  and  absurd.  His  occasional  remarks  on  the 
affairs  of  ancient  Rome  and  of  modern  Europe  are  full  of 
errors : but  he  Avrites  of  times  with  respect  to  Avhich  almost 
every  other  writer  has  been  in  the  wrong ; and,  therefore, 
by  resolutely  deviating  from  his  predecessors,  he  is  often  in 
the  right. 

Almost  ail  the  modern  historians  of  Greece  have  shown 
the  grossest  ignorance  of  the  most  obvious  phenomena  cf 
human  nature.  In  their  representations  the  generals  and 
statesmen  of  antiquity  are  absolutely  divested  of  all  individ- 
uality. They  are  personifications  ; they  are  passions,  talents, 
opinions,  virtues,  vices,  but  not  men.  Inconsistency  is  a 
thing  of  which  these  writers  have  no  notion.  That  a man 
may  have  been  liberal  in  his  youth  and  avaricious  in  his  age, 
.cruel  to  one  enemy  and  merciful  to  another,  is  to  them  ut- 
terly inconceivable.  If  the  facts  be  undeniable,  they  sup- 
pose some  strange  and  deep  design,  in  order  to  explain  whai, 
;as  every  one  who  has  observed  his  OAvn  mind  knows,  needs 
no  explanation  at  all.  This  is  a mode  of  Avriting  very  ac- 
ceptable to  the  multitude  Avho  have  ahvays  been  accustomed 
to  make  gods  and  daemons  out  of  men  very  little  better  or 
worse  than  themselves ; but  it  appears  contemptible  to  all 
who  have  watched  llie  changes  of  human  character — to  all 
who  have  observed  the  influence  of  time,  of  circumstances, 


OK  MITFORD’S  HISTORY  OF  GRFECE. 


129 


and  of  associates,  on  mankind — to  all  who  liave  seen  a hero 
in  the  gout,  a democrat  in  tlie  churcli,  a j>edant  in  love,  or  a 
philosojDher  in  liquor.  This  j)ractice  of  painting  in  nothing 
but  black  and  white  is  un2)ardonablo  even  in  the  drama.  It 
is  the  great  fault  of  Altieri ; and  how  much  it  injures  the 
effect  of  his  compositions  will  be  obvious  to  every  one  who 
will  compare  liis  Rosmunda  with  the  Lady  Macbeth  of 
Shakspeare.  The  one  is  a wicked  woman ; the  other  is  a 
fiend.  Her  only  feeling  is  hatred  ; all  her  words  are  curses. 
We  are  at  once  shocked  and  fatigued  by  the  spectacle  of 
such  raving  cruelty,  excited  by  no  j)rovocation,  repeatedly 
changing  its  object,  and  constant  in  nothing  but  in  its  inex- 
tinguishable thirst  for  blood. 

In  history  this  error  is  far  more  disgraceful.  Indeed, 
there  is  no  fault  which  so  completely  ruins  a narrative  in 
the  opinion  of  a judicious  reader.  We  know  that  the  line 
of  demarcation  between  good  and  bad  men  is  so  faintly 
marked  as  often  to  elude  the  most  careful  investigation  of 
those  who  have  the  best  opportunities  for  judging.  Public 
men,  above  all,  are  surrounded  with  so  many  temptations 
and  difficulties  that  some  doubt  must  almost  always  hang 
over  their  real  dispositions  and  intentions.  The  lives  of 
Pym,  Cromwell,  Monk,  Clarendon,  Marlborough,  Burnet, 
Wal|3ole,  are  well  knowm  to  us.  We  are  acquainted  with 
their  actions,  their  speeches,  their  waitings  ; we  have  abun- 
dance of  letters  and  well-authen  icated  anecdotes  relating  to 
them  : yet  what  candid  man  will  venture  very  positively  to 
say  wffiich  of  them  were  honest  and  which  of  them  were 
dishonest  men.  It  ajipears  easier  to  j^ronounce  decidedly 
upon  the  great  characters  of  antiquity,  not  because  we  have 
greater  means  of  discovering  truth,  but  simply  because  we 
have  less  means  of  detecting  errors.  The  modern  historians 
of  Greece  have  forgotten  this.  Their  heroes  and  villains  are 
as  consistent  in  all  their  sayings  and  doings  as  the  cardinal 
virtues  and  the  deadly  sins  in  an  allegory.  We  should  as 
soon  expect  a good  action  from  giant  Slay-good  in  Bunyan 
as  from  Dionysius ; and  a crime  of  Epaminondas  would 
seem  as  incongruous  as  a faux-j^as  of  the  grave  and  comely 
damsel,  called  Discretion,  who  answered  the  bell  at  the  door 
of  the  house  Beautiful. 

This  error  was  partly  the  effect  of  the  high  estimation 
in  which  the  later  ancient  writers  have  been  held  by  modern 
scholars.  Those  French  and  English  authors  who  have 
treated  of  the  affairs  of  Greece  have  generally  turned  with 
VoL.  I.— 9 _ 


13C  macaulay\s  miscellaneous  writings. 

contempt  from  the  simple  and  natural  narrations  of  Thucy- 
dides and  X(‘U(>phon  to  the  extravagant  re])resentations  of 
Plutarch,  Diodorus,  Curtins,  and  other  romancers  of  the 
same  class, — men  wlio  described  military  o])crations  without 
ever  having  handled  a sword,  and  applied  to  the  seditions 
of  little  republics  speculations  formed  by  observation  on  an 
empire  which  covered  half  the  known  world.  Of  liberty 
they  knew  nothing.  It  was  to  them  a great  mystery, — a 
superhuman  enjoyment.  They  ranted  about  liberty  and  pa- 
triotism, from  the  same  cause  which  leads  monks  to  talk  more 
ardently  than  other  men  about  love  and  woman.  A wise 
man  values  political  liberty  because  it  secures  the  persons  and 
the  ])ossessions  of  citizens ; because  it  tends  to  prevent  the 
extravagance  of  rulers,  and  the  corruption  of  judges  ; because 
it  gives  birth  to  useful  sciences  and  elegant  arts;  because  it 
excites  the  industry  and  increases  the  comforts  of  all  classes 
of  society.  These  theorists  imagined  that  it  possessed  some- 
thing eternally  and  intrinsically  good,  distinct  from  the 
blessings  which  it  generally  produced.  They  considered  it 
not  as  a means  but  as  an  end  ; an  end  to  be  attained  at  any 
cost.  Their  favorite  heroes  are  those  who  have  sacrificed, 
for  the  mere  name  of  freedom,  the  prosperity — the  security 
— the  justice — from  which  freedom  derives  its  value. 

There  is  another  remarkable  characteristic  of  these 
writers,  in  which  their  modern  worshippers  have  carefully 
imitated  them, — a great  fondness  for  good  stories.  The 
most  established  facts,  dates,  and  characters  are  never  suf- 
fered to  come  into  competition  with  a splendid  saying,  or  a 
romantic  exploit.  The  early  historians  have  left  us  natural 
and  simple  descriptions  of  the  great  events  which  they  wit- 
nessed, and  the  great  resell  with  whom  they  associated. 
When  we  read  the  account  which  Plutarch  and  llollin  have 
given  of  the  same  period,  we  scarcely  know  our  old  acquaint- 
ance again ; we  are  utterly  comfounded  by  the  melo-dra- 
matic  effect  of  the  narration,  and  the  sublime  coxcombry  of 
the  characters. 

Tliese  are  the  principal  errors  into  which  the  predecessors 
of  Mr.  Mitford  have  fallen ; and  from  most  of  these  he  is 
free.  Ilis  faults  are  of  a completely  different  description. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  students  of  history  may  now  be 
saved,  like  Dorax  in  Dryden’s  play,  by  swallowing  two  con- 
flicted poisons,  each  of  which  may  serve  as  an  antidote  to 
the  other. 

The  first  and  most  important  difference  between  Mr.  Mit* 


ON  MITFORd’s  history  of  GREECE.  131 

ford  and  those  who  have  preceded  him  is  in  his  narration. 
Here  tlie  advantage  lies,  for  the  most  part,  on  his  side.  His 
principle  is  to  follow  the  contemporary  historians,  to  look 
with  doubt  on  all  statements  which  are  not  in  seme  degree 
confirmed  by  them,  and  absolutely  to  reject  all  which  are 
contradicted  by  them.  While  he  retains  the  guidance  of 
some  writer  in  whom  he  can  place  confidence,  he  goes  on  ex- 
cellently. When  he  loses  it,  he  falls  to  the  level,  or  perhaps 
below  the  level,  of  the  writers  whom  he  so  much  despises  : 
he  is  as  absurd  as  they,  and  very  much  duller.  It  is  really 
amusing  to  observe  how  he  proceeds  with  his  narration 
when  he  has  no  better  authority  than  poor  Diodorus.  He 
is  compelled  to  relate  something;  yet  he  believes  nothing. 
He  accom])anics  every  fact  with  a long  statement  of  ob- 
jections. His  account  of  the  administration  of  Dionysius  is 
in  no  sense  a history.  It  ought  to  be  entitled — “ Historic 
doubts  as  to  certain  events,  alleged  to  have  taken  place  in 
Sicily.” 

This  skepticism,  however,  like  that  of  some  great  legal 
characters  almost  as  sceptical  as  himself,  vanishes  whenever 
his  political  partialities  interfere.  He  is  a vehement  ad- 
mirer of  tyranny  and  oligarchy,  and  considers  no  evidence 
as  feeble  which  can  be  brought  forward  in  favor  of  those 
forms  of  government.  Democracy  he  hates  with  a perfect 
hatred,  a hatred  which,  in  the  first  volume  of  his  history, 
appears  only  in  his  episodes  and  reflections,  but  which,  in 
those  parts  where  he  has  less  reverence  for  his  guides,  and 
can  venture  to  take  his  own  way,  completely  distorts  even 
his  narration. 

In  taking  up  these  opinions,  I have  no  doubt  that  Mr. 
Mitford  was  influenced  by  the  same  love  of  singularity 
which  led  him  to  spell  island  without  an  and  to  place  two 
dots  over  the  last  letter  of  idea.  In  truth,  preceding  his- 
torians have  erred  so  monstrously  on  the  other  side  that  even 
the  worst  parts  of  Mr.  Mitford’s  book  may  be  useful  as  a cor- 
rective. For  a young  gentleman  who  talks  much  about  his 
country,  tyrannicide,  and  Epaminondas,  this  work,  diluted 
in  a sufficient  quantity  of  Rollin  and  Barthelemi,  may  be  a 
very  useful  remedy. 

The  errors  of  both  parties  arise  from  an  ignorance  or  a 
neglect  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  political  science. 
Tlie  writers  on  one  side  imagine  popular  government  to  be 
always  a blessing ; Mr.  Mitford  omits  no  opportunity  of 
assuring  us  that  it  is  always  a curse.  The  fact  is,  that  good 


132 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


government,  Jike  a good  coat,  is  tliat  wliich  fits  tlie  body 
for  wliich  it  is  designed.  A man  wlio,  ii])on  abstract  princi- 
ples, ])rononnces  a constitution  to  be  good,  without  an  exact 
knowledge  of  the  jieople  Avho  are  to  be  governed  by  it, 
pidges  as  absurdly  as  a tailor  who  should  measure  the 
llelvidere  Apollo  for  the  clothes  of  all  his  customers.  The 
demagogues  who  wished  to  see  Portugal  a republic,  and  the 
wise  critics  wdio  revile  the  Virginians  for  not  having  insti- 
tuted a peerage,  appear  equally  ridiculous  to  all  men  of 
«cnse  and  candor. 

That  is  the  best  government  which  desires  to  make  the 
jieople  happy,  and  knows  how  to  make  them  happy.  Nei- 
ther the  inclination  nor  the  knowledge  will  suffice  alone  ; 
and  it  is  difficult  to  find  them  together. 

Pure  democracy,  and  pure  democracy  alone,  satisfies  the 
former  condition  of  this  great  problem.  That  the  governors 
may  be  solicitous  only  for  the  interests  of  tlie  governed,  it  is 
necessary  that  the  interests  of  the  governors  and  the  gov- 
erned should  be  the  same.  This  cannot  be  often  the  case 
where  power  is  intrusted  to  one  or  to  a few.  The  privi- 
leged part  of  the  community  will  doubtless  derive  a certain 
degree  of  advantage  from  the  general  prosperity  of  the 
state ; but  they  will  derive  a greater  from  oppression  and 
exaction.  The  king  will  desire  an  useless  war  for  his  glory, 
or  a parc-aux-cerfs  for  his  pleasure.  The  nobles  will  de- 
mand monopolies  and  lettres-de-cdchet.  In  proportion  as 
the  number  of  governors  is  increased  the  evil  is  diminished. 
There  are  fewer  to  contribute,  and  more  to  receive.  The 
vfividend  wffiich  each  can  obtain  of  the  public  plunder  be- 
comes less  and  less  tempting.  But  the  interests  of  the  sub- 
jects and  the  rulers  never  absolutely  coincide  till  the  sub- 
jects themselves  become  the  rulers,  that  is,  till  the  gov- 
ernment be  either  immediately  or  mediately  democratical. 

But  this  is  not  enough.  “Will  without  power,”  said 
the  sagacious  Casimir  Milor  Beefington,  “is  like  children 
playing  at  soldiers.”  The  people  wall  always  be  desirous  to 
promote  their  own  interests ; but  it  may  be  doubted, 
whether,  in  any  community,  they  were  ever  sufficiently  edu-p 
cated  to  understand  them.  Even  in  this  island,  where  the 
multitude  have  long  been  better  informed  that  in  any  other 
part  of  Europe,  the  rights  of  the  many  have  generally  been 
asserted  against  themselves  by  the  patriotism  of  the  few. 
Free  trade,  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  w hich  a government 
can  confer  on  a people,  is  in  almost  every  country  unpopu^ 


ON  MITFORd’s  history  of  GREECE.  183 

lar.  It  may  be  well  doubted,  whether  a liberal  policy  with 
regard  to  our  commercial  relations  would  find  any  support 
from  a parliament  elected  by  universal  suffrage.  The  re- 
publicans on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  have  recently 
adopted  regulations,  of  which  the  consequences  will,  before 
long,  show  us, 

“ How  Nations  sink,  by  darling  schemes  opi/ressed, 

When  vengeance  listens  to  the  fool’s  request." 

The  people  are  to  be  governed  for  their  own  good ; and, 
that  they  may  be  governed  for  their  own  good,  they  must 
not  be  governed  by  their  own  ignorance.  There  are  coun- 
tries in  which  it  would  be  as  absurd  to  establish  popular  gov- 
ernment as  to  abolish  all  the  restraints  in  a school,  or  to 
untie  all  the  strait-waistcoats  in  a mad-house. 

Hence  it  may  be  concluded  that  the  happiest  state  of 
society  is  that  in  which  supreme  power  resides  in  the  whole 
body  of  a well-informed  people.  This  is  an  imaginary,  per- 
haps an  unattainable,  state  of  things.  Yet,  in  some  measure, 
we  may  approximate  to  it;  and  he  alone  deserves  the  name 
of  a great  statesman,  whose  principle  it  is  to  extend  the 
power  of  the  people  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of  their 
knowledge,  and  to  give  them  every  facility  for  obtaining 
such  a degree  of  knowledge  as  may  render  it  safe  to  trust 
them  with  absolute  power.  In  the  mean  time,  it  is  danger- 
ous to  praise  or  condemn  constitutions  in  the  abstract; 
since,  from  the  despotism  of  St.  Petersburg  to  the  democracy 
of  Washington,  there  is  scarcely  a form  of  government 
which  might  not,  at  least  in  some  hypothetical  case,  be  the 
best  possible. 

If,  however,  there  be  any  form  of  government  which  in 
all  ages  and  all  nations  has  always  been,  and  must  always  be 
pernicious,  it  is  certainly  that  which  Mr.  Mitford,  on  his 
usual  principle  of  being  wiser  that  all  the  rest  of  the  world, 
has  taken  under  his  especial  patronage — pure  oligarchy. 
This  is  closely,  and  indeed  inseparably,  connected  with  an- 
l^ther  of  his  eccentric  tastes,  a marked  partiality  for  Lace- 
daemon, and  a dislike  of  Athens.  Mr.  Mitford’s  book  has, 
I suspect,  rendered  these  sentiments  in  some  degree  popular ; 
and  I shall,  therefore,  examine  them  at  some  length. 

The  shades  in  the  Athenian  character  strike  the  eye 
more  ra])idly  than  those  in  the  Lacedaemonian  : not  because 
they  are  darker,  but  because  they  are  on  a brighter  ground. 
The  law  of  ostracism  is  an  instance  of  this.  Nothing  can 


134 


MACAULAY'S  MISC?]LLAMEOUS  WRITINGS. 


be  conceived  more  odious  than  the  practice  of  punishing  a 
citizen,  simply  and  j)rofessedly,  for  liis  eminence  ; — and 
notliing  in  the  institutions  of  Athens  is  more  frequently 
or  more  justly  censured.  Lacedaemon  was  free  from  this. 
And  why  ? Lacedueruon  did  not  need  it.  Oligarchy  is  an 
ostracism  of  itself, — an  ostracism  not  occasional,  but  per- 
manent,— not  dubious,  but  certain.  Her  Jaws  prevented 
the  development  of  merit,  instead  of  attacking  its  maturity. 
They  did  not  cut  down  the  })lanb  in  its  high  and  palmy  state, 
but  cursed  the  soil  with  eternal  sterility.  In  spite  of  the  law 
of  ostracism,  Athens  produced,  within  a hundred  and  lifty 
years,  the  greatest  public  men  that  ever  existed.  Whom 
had  Sparta  to  ostracise  ? She  produced,  at  most,  four  emi- 
nent men,  Brasidas,  Gylippus,  Lysander,  and  Agesilaus.  Of 
these,  not  one  rose  to  distinction  within  her  jurisdiction.  It 
was  only  w^hcn  they  escaped  from  the  region  within  which 
the  influence  of  aristocracy  withered  everything  good  and 
noble,  it  was  only  when  they  ceased  to  be  Lacedaemonians, 
that  they  became  great  men.  Brasidas,  among  the  cities  of 
Thrace,  was  strictly  a democratical  leader,  the  favorite 
minister  and  general  of  the  people.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  Gylippus,  at  Syracuse.  Lysander,  in  the  Hellespont,  and 
Agesilaus,  in  Asia,  were  liberated  for  a time  from  the  hate- 
ful restraints  imposed  by  the  constitution  of  Lycurgus. 
Both  acquired  fame  abroad : and  both  returned  to  be 
watched  and  depressed  at  home.  This  is  not  peculiar  to 
Sparta.  Oligarchy,  wherever  it  has  existed,  has  al^vays 
stunted  the  growth  of  genius.  Thus  it  was  at  Rome,  till 
about  a century  before  the  Christam  era:  we  read  of  abun- 
dance of  consuls  and  dictators  who  won  battles,  and  en- 
joyed triumphs  ; but  we  look  in  vain  for  a single  man  of  the 
first  order  of  intellect, — for  a Pericles,  a Demosthenes,  or  a 
Hannibal.  The  Gracchi  formed  a strong  democratical 
party ; Marius  revived  it ; the  foundations  of  the  old 
aristocracy  were  shaken  ; and  two  generations  fertLe  in 
really  great  men  appeared. 

Venice  is  a still  more  remarkable  instance:  in  her  his- 
tory we  see  nothing  but  the  state  ; aristocracy  had  destroyed 
every  seed  of  genius  and  virtue.  Her  dominion  was  like 
herself,  lofty  and  magnificent,  but  founded  on  filth  and 
weeds.  God  forbid  that  there  should  ever  again  exist  a 
powerful  and  civilized  state,  which,  after  existing  through 
thirteen  hundred  eventful  years,  shall  not  bequeath  to  man- 
kind the  memory  of  one  great  name  or  one  generous  action. 


ON  MITFORD’.^  HISTOUY  of  GREECE.  13D 

Many  writers,  anviMr.  Mitford  among  the  number,  liave 
admired  the  stability  cf  the  Spartan  institutions;  in  fact, 
there  is  little  to  admire,  and  less  to  approve.  Oligarchy  is 
th*t  weakest  and  most  stable  of  governments ; and  it  is  sta- 
ble because  it  is  weak.  It  has  a sort  of  valetudinarian  lon- 
gevity ; it  lives  in  the  balance  of  Sanctorius  ; it  takes  no  ex- 
eicise  ; it  exposes  itself  to  no  accident ; it  is  seized  with  an 
hy]>ochondriac  alarm  at  every  new  sensation;  it  trembles 
at  evei-y  breath ; it  lets  blood  for  every  inflammation : and 
thus,  without  ever  enjoying  a day  of  health  or  pleasure, 
drags  on  its  existence  to  a doting  and  debilitated  old  age. 

The  Spartans  purchased  for  their  government  a pro- 
longation of  its  existence  by  the  sacrifice  of  happiness  at 
home  and  dignity  abroad.  They  cringed  to  the  powerful ; 
they  trampled  on  the  weak ; they  massacred  their  Helots ; 
they  betrayed  their  allies ; they  contrived  to  be  a day  too 
late  for  the  battle  of  Marathon  ; they  attempted  to  avoid 
the  battle  of  Salamis ; they  suffered  the  Athenians,  to  whom 
they  owed  their  lives  and  liberties,  to  be  a second  time 
driven  from  their  country  by  the  Persians,  that  they  might 
finish  their  own  fortifications  on  the  Isthmus;  they  at- 
tempted to  take  advantage  of  the  distress  to  which  exer- 
tions in  their  cause  had  reduced  their  preservers,  in  order 
to  make  them  their  slaves  ; they  strove  to  prevent  those 
who  had  abandoned  their  walls  to  defend  them,  from  re- 
building them  to  defend  themselves ; they  commenced  the 
Peloponnesian  "war  in  violation  of  tlieir  engagements  with 
Athens;  they  abandoned  it  in  violation  of  their  engage- 
ments with  their  allies ; they  gave  up  to  the  sword  wdiole 
cities  wdiich  had  placed  themselves  under  their  protection ; 
they  bartered,  for  advantages  confined  to  themselves,  the 
uUterest,  the  freedom,  and  the  lives  of  those  who  had  served 
them  most  faithfully  ; they  took  with  equal  complacency, 
ai  d equal  infamy,  the  stripes  of  Elis  and  the  bribes  of  Per- 
sia ; they  never  showed  either  resentment  or  gratitude ; they 
abstained  from  no  injury  ; and  they  revenged  none.  Above 
all,  they  looked  on  a citizen  who  served  them  w^ell  as  their 
deadliest  enemy.  These  are  the  arts  which  protract  the  ex- 
istence of  governments. 

Nor  were  the  domestic  institutions  of  Lacedaemon  less 
hateful  or  less  contemptible  than  her  foreign  policy.  A 
perpetual  interference  with  every  part  of  the  system  of 
human  life,  a constant  struggle  against  nature  and  reason, 
characterized  all  her  laws.  To  violate  even  prejudices 


136  MACAULAY^S  MISOELLAT^EOUS  WHITINGS. 

which  liavc  taken  <lec])  root  in  tlic  minds  of  a people  is 
scarcely  ex])cdi(‘nt ; to  think  of  extirpating  natural  apj)0- 
tites  and  j)assi()ii.s  is  frantic  : the  external  symptoms  may  bo 
occasionally  repressed;  but  the  feeling  still  exists,  and,  de- 
barred from  its  natural  objects,  preys  on  the  disordered 
mind  and  body  of  its  victim.  Thus  it  is  in  convents — thus 
it  is  among  ascetic  sects — thus  it  was  among  the  Lacedai- 
monians.  Hence  arose  that  madness,  or  violence  approach- 
ing to  madness,  which,  in  spite  of  every  external  restraint, 
often  appeared  among  the  most  distinguished  citizens  of 
Sparta.  Cleomenes  terminated  his  career  of  raving  cruelty 
by  cutting  himself  to  pieces.  Pausanias  seems  to  have  been 
absolutely  insane : he  formed  a hopeless  and  profligate 
scheme ; he  betrayed  it  with  the  ostentation  of  his  beha- 
vior, and  the  imprudence  of  his  measures  ; and  he  alienated, 
by  his  insolence,  all  who  might  have  served  or  protected 
him.  Xenophon,  a warm  admirer  of  Lacedaemon,  furnishes 
us  with  the  strongest  evidence  to  this  effect.  It  is  impossi- 
ble not  to  observe  the  brutal  and  senseless  fury  which  char- 
acterizes almost  every  Spartan  with  whom  he  was  con- 
nected. Clearchus  nearly  lost  his  life  by  his  cruelty. 
Chirisophus  deprived  his  army  of  the  services  of  a faithful 
guide  by  his  unreasonable  and  ferocious  severity.  But  it  is 
needless  to  multiply  instances.  Lycurgus,  Mr.  Mitford’s 
fovorite  legislator,  founded  his  whole  system  on  a mistaken 
principle.  He  never  considered  that  governments  were 
made  for  men,  and  not  men  for  governments.  Instead  of 
adapting  the  constitution  to  the  people,  he  distorted  the 
minds  of  the  people  to  suit  the  constitution,  a scheme 
worthy  of  the  Laputan  Academy  of  Projectors.  And  this 
appears  to  Mr.  Mitford  to  constitute  Iiis  peculiar  title  to  ad- 
miration. Hear  himself : “ What  to  modern  eyes  most 
strikingly  sets  that  extraordinary  man  above  all  other  legis- 
lators is,  that  in  so  many  circumstances,  apparently  out  of 
the  reach  of  law,  he  controlled  and  formed  to  his  ovm  mind 
the  wills  and  habits  of  his  people.”  I should  suppose  that 
this  gentleman  Lad  the  advantage  of  receiving  his  education 
under  the  ferula  of  Dr.  Pangloss ; for  his  metaphysics  are 
clearly  those  of  the  castle  of  Thunder-ten-tronckh : “ Re- 
marquez  bien  que  les  nez  ont  ete  faits  pour  porter  des 
lunettes,  aussi  avons  nous  des  lunettes.  Les  jambes  sont 
visiblements  instituees  pour  etre  chaussees,  et  nous  avons 
des  chausses.  Les  cochons  etant  faits  pour  ^tre  manges, 
nous  mangeons  du  pore  toute  I’annee.” 


ON  MITFORD'S  history  of  GREECE.  137 

At  Athens  the  law  (lid  not  constantly  interfere  with  the 
tastes  of  the  people.  The  children  were  not  taken  frcra 
their  parents  by  that  universal  step-mother,  the  state.  They 
were  not  starved  into  thieves,  or  tortured  into  bullies* 
there  was  no  established  table  at  which  every  one  must  dine, 
no  established  style  in  which  every  one  must  converse.  An 
Athenian  might  eat  whatever  he  could  afford  to  buy,  and 
talk  as  long  as  he  could  find  people  to  listen.  The  govern- 
ment did  not  tell  the  people  what  opinions  they  were  to 
hold,  or  what  songs  they  were  to  sing.  Freedom  produced 
excellence.  Thus  philosophy  took  its  origin.  Thus  were 
produced  those  models  of  poetry,  of  oratory,  and  of  the  arts, 
which  scarcely  fall  short  of  the  standard  of  ideal  excellence. 
Nothing  is  more  conducive  to  happiness  than  the  free  exer- 
cise of  the  mind  in  pursuits  congenial  to  it.  This  happiness,  as- 
suredly, was  enjoyed  far  more  at  Athens  than  at  Sparta. 
The  Athenians  are  acknowledged  even  by  their  enemies  to 
have  been  distinguished,  in  private  life,  by  their  courteous  and 
amiable  demeanor.  Their  levity,  at  least,  was  better  than 
Spartan  sullenness,  and  their  impertinence,  than  Spartan 
insolence.  Even  in  courage  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
they  were  inferior  to  the  Lacedsemonians.  The  great  Athe- 
nian historian  has  reported  a remarkable  observation  of  the 
great  Athenian  minister.  Pericles  maintained  that  his 
countrymen,  without  submitting  to  the  hardships  of  a Spar- 
tan education,  rivalled  all  the  achievements  of  Spartan 
valor,  and  that  therefore  the  pleasures  and  amusements 
which  they  enjoyed  were  to  be  considered  as  so  much  clear 
gain.  The  infantry  of  Athens  was  certainly  not  equal  to 
that  of  Lacedsemon ; but  this  seems  to  have  been  caused 
merely  by  want  of  practice;  the  attention  of  the  Athenians 
was  diverted  from  the  discipline  of  the  phalanx  to  that  of 
the  trireme.  The  Lacedremonians,  in  spite  of  all  their 
boasted  valor,  were,  from  the  same  cause,  timid  and  disor- 
derly in  naval  action. 

But  w^e  are  told  that  crimes  of  great  enormity  were  per- 
petrated by  the  Athenian  Government,  and  the  democracies 
under  its  protection.  It  is  true  that  Athens  too  often  acted 
up  to  the  full  extent  of  the  laws  of  war,  in  an  age  when 
those  laws  had  not  been  mitigated  by  causes  which  have 
operated  in  later  times.  This  accusation  is,  in  fact,  common 
to  Athens,  to  Laceda3mon,  to  all  the  states  of  Greece,  and 
to  all  states  similarly  situated.  Where  communities  are 
very  large,  the  heavier  evils  of  war  are  felt  but  by  few.  Th^ 


138  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

plough-boy  sings,  the  spinning-wheel  turns  round,  the  wed 
ding-day  is  fixed,  whetlier  the  last  battle  were  lost  or  won. 
In  little  states  it  cannot  be  thus;  every  man  feels  in  his  own 
])roperty  and  person  the  effect  of  a war.  Every  man  is  a 
soldier,  and  a soldier  fighting  for  his  nearest  interests.  Ilis 
own  trees  have  been  cut  down — his  own  corn  has  been 
burnt — his  own  house  has  been  pillaged — his  own  relations 
have  been  killed.  How  can  he  entertain  towards  the 
enemies  of  his  country  the  same  feelings  with  one  who 
has  suffered  nothing  from  them,  except  perhaps  the  addi 
tion  of  a small  sum  to  the  taxes  which  he  pays.  Men 
in  such  circumstances  cannot  be  generous.  They  have 
too  much  at  stake.  It  is  when  they  are,  if  I may  so 
express  myself,  playing  for  love,  it  is  when  war  is  a mere 
game  at  chess,  it  is  when  they  are  contending  for  a remote 
colony,  a frontier  town,  the  honors  of  a flag,  a salute,  or 
a title,  that  they  can  make  fine  speeches,  and  do  good 
offices  to  their  enemies.  The  Black  Prince  waited  behind 
the  chair  of  his  captive;  Villars  interchanged  repartees 
with  Eugene ; George  II.  sent  congratulations  to  Louis 
XV.,  during  a war,  upon  occasion  of  his  escape  from  the 
attempt  of  Damien  : and  these  things  are  fine  and  generous, 
and  very  gratifying  to  the  author  of  the  Broad  Stone  of 
Honor,  and  all  the  other  wise  men  who  think,  like  him,  that 
God  made  the  world  only  for  the  use  of  gentlemen.  But 
they  spring  in  general  from  utter  heartlessness.  No  war 
ought  ever  to  be  undertaken  but  under  circumstances 
which  render  all  interchange  of  courtesy  between  the  com- 
batants impossible.  It  is  a bad  thing  that  men  should  hate 
each  other ; but  it  is  far  worse  that  they  should  contract 
the  habit  of  cutting  one  another’s  throats  without  hatred. 
War  is  never  lenient,  but  where  it  is  wanton;  when  men 
are  compelled  to  fight  in  self-defence,  they  must  hate  and 
avenge  : this  may  be  bad  ; but  it  is  human  nature  ; it  is  the 
clay  as  it  came  from  the  hand  of  the  potter. 

It  is  true  that  among  the  dependencies  of  Athens  sedh 
tions  assumed  a character  more  ferocious  than  even  in 
France,  during  the  reign  of  terror — the  accursed  Saturnalia 
of  an  accursed  bondage.  It  is  true  that  in  Athens  itself, 
where  »uch  convulsions  were  scarcely  known,  the  condition 
of  the  higher  orders  was  disagreeable  ; that  they  were  com- 
pelled to  contribute  large  sums  for  the  service  or  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  public ; and  that  they  were  sometimes  harassed 
by  vexatious  informers.  Whenever  such  cases  occur,  Mr. 


ON  MITFORd’s  history  of  GREECE. 


139 


Milford’s  slvcpticism  vanishes.  The  if,”  the  “ but,”  the 
‘‘it  is  said,”  llie  “if  we  may  believe,”  with  which  he 
qualifies  every  charge  against  a tyrant  or  an  aristocracy,  are 
at  once  abandoned.  The  blacker  the  story,  the  firmer  is 
his  belief ; and  lie  never  fails  to  inveigh  with  hearty  bitter- 
ness against  democracy  as  the  source  of  every  species  of 
crime. 

Tlie  Athenians,  I believe,  possessed  more  liberty  than 
was  good  for  tliem.  Yet  I will  venture  to  assert  that,  while 
the  splendor,  the  intelligence,  and  the  energy  of  that  great 
people  were  peculiar  to  themselves,  the  crimes  with  which 
they  are  charged  arose  from  causes  which  were  common  to 
them  with  every  other  state  which  then  existed.  The 
violence  of  faction  in  that  age  sprung  from  a cause  which 
has  always  been  fertile  in  every  j^olitical  and  moral  evil, 
domestic  slavery. 

The  effect  of  slavery  is  completely  to  dissolve  the  con- 
nection which  naturally  exists  between  the  higher  and  lower 
classes  of  free  citizens.  The  rich  spend  their  wealth  in  pur- 
chasing and  maintaining  slaves.  There  is  no  demand  for 
the  labor  of  the  poor ; the  fable  of  Menenius  ceases  to  be 
applicable;  the  belly  communicates  no  nutriment  to  the 
members ; there  is  an  atrophy  in  the  body  politic.  The  two 
parties,  therefore,  proceed  to  extremities  Utterly  unknown 
in  countries  where  they  have  mutually  need  of  each  other. 
In  Rome  the  oligarchy  was  too  powerful  to  be  subverted  by 
force  ; and  neither  the  tribunes  nor  the  popular  assemblies, 
though  constitutionally  omnipotent,  could  maintain  a suc- 
cessful contest  against  men  who  possessed  the  whole  prop- 
erty of  the  state.  Hence  the  necessity  for  measures  tending 
to  unsettle  the  whole  frame  of  society,  and  to  take  away  every 
motive  of  industry;  the  abolition  of  debts,  and  the  agrarian 
laAVS — propositions  absurdly  condemned  by  men  who  do  not 
consider  the  circumstances  from  which  they  sprung.  They 
were  the  desperate  remedies  of  a d^isperate  disease.  In 
Greece  the  oligarchical  interest  was  not  in  general  so  deeply 
rooted  as  at  Rome.  The  multitude,  therefore,  often  re- 
dressei  by  force  grievances  which,  at  Rome,  were  com- 
monly attacked  under  the  forms  of  the  constitution.  They 
drove  out  or  massacred  the  rich,  and  divided  their  property. 
If  the  superior  union  or  military  skill  of  the  rich  rendered 
them  victorious,  they  took  measures  equally  violent,  dis- 
armed all  ill  whom  they  could  not  confide,  often  slaughtered 
great  numbers  and  occasionally  expelled  the  whole  com* 


140 


Macaulay's  miscellankous  wkitixgs. 


monalty  from  tlio  city,  and  rornained,  witli  tlicir  slaves,  tLe 
sole  irdiabitants. 

From  siicli  calamities  Athens  and  Lacedaemon  alone  were 
almost  com])letely  free.  At  Athens  the  j)iirses  of  the  rich 
were  laid  under  regular  contribution  for  the  sup})ort  of  tlie 
poor ; and  tliis,  rightly  considered,  was  as  inucli  a favor  to 
tlie  givers  as  to  tlie  receivers,  since  no  other  measures  could 
possibly  have  saved  their  houses  from  pillage  and  theii 
jiersons  from  violence.  It  is  singular  that  Mr.  Mitfoi’d 
should  perpetually  reprobate  a j)olicy  which  was  the  best 
that  could  be  pursued  in  such  a state  of  things,  and  which 
alone  saved  Athens  from  the  frightful  outrages  which  were 
perpetrated  at  Corcyra. 

Lacedaemon,  cursed  with  a system  of  slavery  more  odious 
than  has  ever  existed  in  any  other  country,  avoided  this 
evil  by  almost  totally  annihilating  private  property. 
Lycurgus  began  by  an  agrarian  law.  He  abolished  all  pro- 
fessions except  that  of  arms ; he  made  the  whole  of  his 
community  a standing  army,  every  member  of  which  had  a 
common  right  to  the  services  of  a crowd  of  miserable  bond- 
men  ; he  secured  the  state  from  sedition  at  the  expense  of 
the  Helots.  Of  all  the  parts  of  his  system  this  is  the  most 
creditable  to  his  head,  and  the  most  disgraceful  to  his 
heart. 

These  considerations,  and  many  others  of  equal  impor- 
tance, Mr.  Mitford  has  neglected ; but  he  has  yet  a heavier 
charge  to  answer.  He  has  made  not  only  illogical  inferences, 
but  false  statements.  While  he  never  states,  without  quali- 
fications and  objections,  the  charges  which  the  earliest  and 
best  historians  have  brought  against  his  favorite  tyrants, 
Pisistratus,  Hippias,  and  Gelon,  he  transcribes,  without  any 
hesitation,  the  grossest  abuse  of  the  least  authoritative 
writers  against  every  democracy  and  every  demagogue. 
Such  an  accusation  should  not  be  made  without  being  sup- 
ported ; and  I will  therefore  select  one  out  of  many  pas- 
sages which  will  fully  substantiate  the  charge,  and  convict 
Air.  Mitford  of  wilful  misrepresentation,  or  of  negligence 
scarcely  less  culpable.  Mr.  Mitford  is  speaking  of  one  of 
the  greatest  men  that  ever  lived,  Demosthenes,  and  compar- 
ing him  with  his  rival,  ^schines.  Let  him  speak  for  himself. 

“ In  earliest  youth  Demosthenes  earned  an  opprobrious 
nickname  by  the  effeminacy  of  his  dress  and  manner.  ” 
Does  Air.  Mitford  know  that  Demosthenes  denied  this 
charge,  and  explained  the  nickname  in  a perfectly  different 


ON  MTTFORd’s  history  or  GREECE. 


141 


manner  ? * And  if  lie  knew  it,  should  ho  not  have  stated  it  ? 
He  proceeds  thus  : — ‘‘  On  emerging  from  minorityj  by  the 
Athenian  law,  at  five-and-twenty,  he  earned  another  oppro^ 
brious  nickname  by  a prosecution  of  his  guardians,  which  was 
considered  as  a dishonorable  attempt  to  extort  money  from 
them.”  In  the  first  place,  Demosthenes  was  not  five-and 
twenty  years  of  age.  Mr.  Mitford  might  have  learned,  from 
so  common  a book  as  the  Archaeologia  of  Archbishop  Potter 
that  at  twenty  Athenian  citizens  were  freed  from  the  control 
of  their  guardians,  and  began  to  manage  their  own  property. 
The  very  speech  of  Demosthenes  against  his  guardians  proves 
most  satisfactorily  that  he  was  under  twenty.  In  his  speech 
against  Midias,  he  says  that  when  he  undertook  that  prosecu- 
tion he  was  quite  f a boy.  His  youth  might,  therefore,  excuse 
the  step,  even  if  it  had  been  considered,  as  Mr.  Mitford  says, 
a dishonorable  attempt  to  extort  money.  But  who  con- 
sidered it  as  such?  Not  the  judges,  who  condemned  the 
guardians.  The  Athenian  courts  of  justice  were  not  the 
purest  in  the  world ; but  their  decisions  were  at  least  at 
likely  to  be  just  as  the  abuse  of  a deadly  enemy.  Mr. 
Mitford  refers  for  confirmtion  of  his  statement  to  ^schines 
and  Plutarch,  -^schines  by  no  means  bears  him  out ; 
and  Plutarch  directly  contradicts  him.  ‘‘Not  long  after,” 
says  Mr.  Mitford,  “ he  took  blows  publicly  in  the  theater  ” 
(I  preserve  the  orthography,  if  it  can  be  so  called,  of  this 
historian)  “ from  a petulant  youth  of  rank,  named  Meidias.” 
Here  are  two  disgraceful  mistakes.  In  the  first  place,  it 
was  long  after ; eight  years  at  the  very  least,  probably  much 
more.  In  the  next  place,  the  petulant  youth,  of  whom 
Mr.  Mitford  speaks,  was  fifty  years  old.J  Really  Mr.  Mit- 
ford has  less  reason  to  censure  the  carelessness  of  his  pre- 
decessors than  to  reform  his  own.  After  this  monstrous  in- 
accuracy, with  regard  to  facts,  we  may  be  able  to  judge  what 
degree  of  credit  ought  to  be  given  to  the  vague  abuse  of  such  a 
writer.  “ The  cowardice  of  Demosthenes  in  the  field  after- 
wards became  notorious.”  Demosthenes  was  a civil  character 
— war  was  not  his  business.  In  his  time  the  division  between 
military  and  political  officers  was  beginning  to  be  strongly 
marked ; yet  the  recollection  of  the  days  when  every  citizen 
was  a soldier  was  still  recent.  In  such  states  of  society  a 

♦ See  the  speech  of  ^Echines  against  Timarhus. 

t MeipaKuAAioi^  aiy  KOfxiSr} 

i Whoever  will  read  the  speech  of  Demosthenes  against  Midias  will  find  the 
statements  in  the  text  confirmed,  and  will  have,  moreover,  the  pleasure  of  hecoio* 
Ing  acquainted  with  one  of  the  finest  compositions  in  the  world. 


142. 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


C(‘rt:iiii  (lei^ro(‘  of  disropiitc  ahvnys  nttaclics  to  sedentary  men  ; 
I)iit  any  l('ader  of  the  Athenian  democracy  could  have 
been,  as  ]\Ir.  Mitford  says  of  Demosthenes,  a few  lines  l)efore, 
remarkable  for  “an  extraordinary  deficiency  of  ])ersonal  cour- 
a<>^e,”  is  absolutely  impossible.  What  mercenary  warrior  of 
the  time  exposed  liis  life  to  greater  or  more  constant  perils  ? 
Was  there  a single  soldier  at  Cha3ronea  who  had  more  cause 
to  tremble  for  his  safety  than  the  orator,  who,  in  case  of 
defeat,  could  scarcely  hoj)e  for  mercy  from  the  peo])le  whom 
he  had  misled  or  the  prince  whom  he  had  oi)})osed?  Were 
not  the  ordinary  fluctuations  of  popular  feeling  enough  to 
deter  any  coward  from  engaging  in  political  conflicts  ? Isoc- 
rates, whom  Mr.  Mitford  extols,  because  he  constantly  em- 
ployed all  the  flowers  of  his  school-boy  rhetoric  to  decorate 
oligarchy  and  tyranny,  avoided  the  judicial  and  political 
meetings  of  Athens  from  mere  timidity,  and  seems  to  have 
hated  democracy  only  because  he  durst  not  look  a popular 
assembly  in  the  face.  Demosthenes  was  a man  of  a feeble 
constitution  : his  nerves  were  weak  ; but  his  spirit  was  high  ; 
and  the  energy  and  enthusiasm  of  his  feelings  supported  him 
through  life  and  in  death. 

So  much  for  Demosthenes.  Now  for  the  orator  of  aris- 
tocracy. I do  not  wish  to  abuse  J5schines.  He  may  have 
been  an  honest  man.  He  was  certainly  a great  man  ; and  I 
feel  a reverence,  of  which  Mr.  Mitford  seems  to  have  no 
notion,  for  great  men  of  every  party.  But,  when  Mr.  Mit- 
ford says  that  the  private  character  of  ^schines  was  with- 
out stain,  does  he  remember  what  ^schines  has  himself 
confessed  in  his  speech  against  Timarchus  ? I can  make  ah 
lowances  as  well  as  Mr.  Mitford  for  persons  who  lived  under 
a different  system  of  laws  and  morals;  but  let  them  be  made 
impartially.  If  Demosthenes  is  to  be  attacked  on  account  of 
some  childish  improprieties,  proved  only  by  the  assertion  of 
an  antagonist,  what  shall  we  say  of  those  maturer  vices  which 
tliat  antagonist  has  himself  acknowledged  ? “ Against  the 

private  character  of  ^schines,”  says  Mr.  Mitford,  “ Demos- 
thenes seems  not  to  have  had  an  insinuation  to  oppose.” 
Has  Mr.  Mitford  ever  read  the  speech  of  Demosthenes  on 
the  Embassy  ? Or  can  he  have  forgotten,  what  was  never 
forgotten  by  any  one  else  who  ever  read  it,  the  story  which 
Demosthenes  relates  with  such  terrible  energy  of  language 
concerning  the  drunken  brutality  of  his  rival  ? True  or  false, 
here  is  something  more  than  an  insinuation  ; and  nothing  can 
vindicate  the  historian,  who  has  overlooked  it,  from  the 


ON  mTFOKD’S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 


143 


charge  of  negligence  or  of  partiality.  But  ^schines  denied 
the  story.  And  did  not  Demosthenes  also  deny  the  story 
respecting  his  childish  nickname,  which  Mr.  Mitford  has 
nevertheless  told  wdthout  any  qualification  ? But  the  judges, 
or  some  part  of  them,  showed,  by  their  clamor,  their  dis- 
belief of  the  relation  of  Demosthenes.  And  did  not  the 
judges,  w^ho  tried  the  cause  between  Demosthenes  and  his 
guardians,  indicate,  in  a much  clearer  manner,  their  approba- 
tion of  the  prosecution  ? But  Demosthenes  w as  a demagogue, 
and  is  to  be  slandered,  ^schines  was  an  aristocrat,  and  is 
to  be  panegyrized.  Is  this  a history,  or  a party  pamphlet  ? 

These  passages,  all  selected  from  a single  page  of  Mr. 
Mitford’s  wmrk,  may  give  some  notion  to  those  readers,  who 
have  not  the  means  of  comparing  his  statements  with  the 
original  authorities,  of  his  extreme  partiality  and  carelessness. 
Indeed,  whenever  this  historian  mentions  Demosthenes,  he 
violates  all  law\s  of  candor  and  even  of  decency;  he  weighs 
no  authorities ; he  makes  no  allowances  ; he  forgets  the  best 
authenticated  facts  in  the  history  of  the  times,  and  the  most 
generally  recognized  principles  of  human  nature.  The  op- 
position of  the  great  orator  to  the  policy  of  Philip  he  rep- 
resents as  neither  more  nor  less  than  deliberate  villainy^ 
I hold  almost  the  same  opinion  with  Mr.  Mitford  respecting 
the  character  and  the  views  of  that  great  and  accomplished 
prince.  But  am  I,  therefore,  to  pronounce  Demosthenes 
profligate  and  insincere  ? Surely  not.  Do  w^e  not  perpetu- 
ally see  men  of  the  greatest  talents  and  the  purest  intentions 
misled  by  national  or  factious  prejudices?  The  most  re- 
spectable people  in  England  were,  little  more  than  forty 
years  ago,  in  the  habit  of  uttering  the  bitterest  abuse  against 
Washington  and  Franklin.  It  is  certainly  to  be  regretted 
that  men  should  err  so  grossly  in  their  estimate  of  character. 
But  no  person  who  knows  anything  of  human  nature  will 
impute  such  errors  to  depravity. 

Mr.  Mitford  is  not  more  consistent  with  himself  than  with 
reason.  Though  he  is  the  advocate  of  all  oligarchies,  he  is 
also  a warm  admirer  of  all  kings,  and  of  all  citizens  who  raised 
themselves  to  that  species  of  sovereignty  which  the  Greeks 
denominated  tyranny.  If  monarchy,  as  Mr.  Mitford  holds, 
be  in  itself  a blessing,  democracy  must  be  a better  form  of 
government  than  aristocracy,  which  is  always  opposed  to  the 
supremacy,  and  even  to  the  eminence,  of  individuals.  Or 
th'j  oth^r  hand,  it  is  but  one  step  that  separates  the 
gogue  and  the  sovereign. 


144  Macaulay’s  misoelt.aneous  writings. 

If  this  article  had  not  extended  itself  to  so  great  a length, 
I should  offer  a few  ol)scrvations  on  some  other  peculiarities 
of  this  writer, — his  general  preference  of  the  Barbarians  to 
the  Greeks, — his  predilection  for  Persians,  Carthaginians, 
Thracians,  for  all  nations,  in  short,  except  that  great  and 
enlightened  nation  of  which  he  is  the  historian.  But  I will 
confine  myself  to  a single  topic. 

Mr.  Mitford  has  remarked,  with  truth  and  spirit,  that 
‘‘  any  history  perfectly  written,  but  especially  a Grecian  his- 
tory perfectly  written,  should  l3e  a political  institute  for  ail 
nations.”  It  has  not  occurred  to  him  that  a Grecian  history, 
perfectly  written,  should  also  be  a complete  record  of  the  rise 
and  progress  of  poetry,  philosophy,  and  the  arts.  Here  his 
work  is  extremely  deficient.  Indeed,  though  it  may  seem 
a strange  thing  to  say  of  a gentleman  who  has  published  so 
many  quartos,  Mr.  Mitford  seems  to  entertain  a feeling, 
bordering  on  contempt,  for  literary  and  speculative  pursuits. 
The  talents  of  action  almost  exclusively  attract  his  notice ; 
and  he  talks  with  very  complacent  disdain  of  “ the  idle 
learned.”  Homer,  indeed,  he  admires ; but  principally,  I 
am  afraid,  because  he  is  convinced  that  Homer  could  neither 
read  nor  write.  He  could  not  avoid  speaking  of  Socrates ; 
but  he  has  been  far  more  solicitous  to  trace  his  death  to 
political  causes,  and  to  deduce  from  it  consequences  unfa- 
vorable to  Athens,  and  to  popular  governments,  than  to 
throw  light  on  the  character  and  doctrines  of  the  wonderful 
ma 

“ From  whose  mouth  issued  forth 
Mellifluous  streams  that  watered  all  the  schools 
Of  Academics,  old  and  new,  with  those 
Surnamed  Peripatetics,  and  the  sect 
Epicurean  and  the  Stoic  severe.’* 

This,  indeed,  is  a deficiency  by  no  means  peculiar  to 
Mr.  Mitford.  Most  people  seem  to  imagine  that  a detail  of 
public  occurrences — the  operations  of  sieges — the  changes 
of  administrations  — the  treaties  — the  conspiracies  — the 
rebellions — is  a complete  history.  Differences  of  definition 
are  logically  unimportant ; but  practically  they  sometimes 
produce  the  most  momentous  effects.  Thus  it  has  been  in 
the  present  case.  Historians  have,  almost  without  exception, 
confined  themselves  to  the  public  transactions  of  states,  and 
have  left  to  the  negligent  administration  of  writers  of  fic- 
tion a province  at  least  equally  extensive  and  valuable. 

All  wise  statesmen  have  agreed  to  consider  the  prosperity 


ON  MITFORD^S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 


145 


or  adversity  of  nations  as  made  up  of  the  happiness  or  misery 
of  individuals,  and  to  reject  as  chimerical  all  notions  of  a 
public  interest  of  the  community,  distinct  from  the  interest 
of  the  component  parts.  It  is  therefore  strange  that  those 
whose  office  it  is  to  supply  statesmen  with  examples  and 
warnings  should  omit,  as  too  mean  for  the  dignity  of  history, 
circumstances  which  exert  the  most  extensive  influence  on 
the  state  of  society.  In  general,  the  under  current  of  human 
jfo  flows  steadily  on,  unruffled  by  the  storms  which  agitate 
ffie  surface.  The  happiness  of  the  many  commonly  de- 
pends on  causes  independent  of  victories  or  defeats,  of  re- 
V'olutions  or  restorations, — causes  which  can  be  regulated 
by  no  laws,  and  which  are  recorded  in  no  archives.  These 
causes  are  the  things  which  it  is  of  main  importance  to  us  to 
know,  not  how  the  Lacedaemonian  phalanx  was  broken  at 
Leuctra — not  whether  Alexander  died  of  poison  or  by  dis- 
ease. History  without  these,  is  a shell  without  a kernel ; and 
such  is  almost  all  the  history  which  is  extant  in  the  world. 
Paltry  skirmishes  and  plots  are  reported  with  absurd  and 
useless  minuteness ; but  improvements  the  most  essential 
to  the  comfort  of  human  life  extend  themselves  over  the 
world,  and  introduce  themselves  into  every  cottage,  before 
any  annalist  can  condescend,  from  the  dignity  of  writing 
about  generals  and  ambassadors,  to  take  the  least  notice  of 
them.  Thus  the  progress  of  the  most  salutary  inventions 
and  discoveries  is  buried  in  impenetrable  mystery ; mankind 
are  deprived  of  a most  useful  species  of  knowledge,  and 
their  benefactors  of  their  honest  fame.  In  the  meantime 
every  child  knows  by  heart  the  dates  and  adventures  of  a 
long  line  of  barbarian  kings.  The  history  of  nations,  in  the 
sense  in  which  I use  the  word,  is  often  best  studied  in  works 
-lot  professedly  historical.  Thucydides,  as  far  as  he  goes, 
IS  an  excellent  writer ; yet  he  affords  us  far  less  knowledge 
of  the  most  important  particulars  relating  to  Athens  than 
Piato  or  Aristophanes.  The  little  treatise  of  Xenophon  on 
Domestic  Economy  contains  more  historical  information  than 
all  the  seven  books  of  his  Hellenics.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  the  Sac;  x ‘ of  Horace,  of  the  Letters  of  Cicero,  of  the 
novels  of  Le  Sage,  of  the  memoirs  of  Marmontel.  Many 
others  might  be  mentioned  ; but  these  sufficiently  illustrate 
my  meaning. 

I would  hope  that  there  may  yet  appear  a writer  who  may 
despise  the  present  narrow  limits,  and  assert  the  rights  of 
history  over  every  part  of  her  natural  domain*  Should  such  a 
Yqu  I,~10 


I 


146  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wuitings. 

writer  ong.'i^o  in  tliat  enterprise  in  wliich  I cannot  but  con- 
sider Mr.  Mitford  as  having  failed,  he  will  record,  indeed,  all 
that  is  interesting  and  important  in  military  and  political 
transactions  ; but  he  will  not  think  anything  too  trivial  for 
the  gravity  of  history  wliicli  is  not  too  trivial  to  promote  or 
diminish  the  ha])piness  of  man.  He  will  portray  in  vivid 
colors  the  domestic  society,  the  manners,  the  amusements, 
the  conversation  of  tlie  Greeks.  He  will  not  disdain  to  dis- 
cuss the  state  of  agriculture,  of  the  mechanical  arts,  and  of 
the  conveniences  of  life.  The  progress  of  painting,  of 
sculpture,  and  of  architecture,  will  form  an  important  part 
of  his  plan.  But,  above  all,  his  attention  will  be  given  to 
the  history  of  that  splendid  literature  from  which  has  sprung 
all  the  strength,  the  wisdom,  the  freedom,  and  the  glory,  oi 
the  western  world. 

Of  the  indifference  which  Mr.  Mitford  shows  on  thi» 
subject  I will  not  speak;  fori  cannot  speak  with  fairness. 
It  is  a subject  on  which  I love  to  forget  the  accuracy  of  a 
judge,  in  the  veneration  of  a worshipper  and  the  gratitude 
of  a child.  If  we  consider  merely  the  subtlety  of  disquisition, 
the  force  of  imagination,  the  perfect  energy  and  elegance 
of  expression,  which  characterize  the  great  works  of  Athenian 
genius,  we  must  pronounce  them  intrinsically  most  valuable ; 
but  what  shall  we  say  when  we  reflect  that  from  hence  have 
sprung,  directly  or  indirectly,  all  the  noblest  creations  of  the 
human  intellect ; that  from  hence  were  the  vast  accomplish- 
ments, and  the  brilliant  fancy  of  Cicero ; the  withering  fire 
of  Juvenal ; the  plastic  imagination  of  Dante  ; the  humor 
of  Cervantes ; the  comprehension  of  Bacon ; the  wit  of 
Butler ; the  supreme  and  universal  excellence  of  Shakspeare  ? 
All  the  triumphs  of  truth  and  genius  over  prejudice  and 
power,  in  every  country  and  in  every  age,  have  been  the 
triumphs  of  Athens.  Wherever  a few  great  minds  have 
made  a stand  against  violence  and  fraud,  in  the  cause  of 
liberty  and  reason,  there  has  been  her  spirit  in  the  midst  of 
them ; inspiring,  encouraging,  consoling ; — by  the  lonely 
lamp  of  Erasmus  ; by  the  restless  bed  of  Pascal ; in  the  tri- 
bune of  Mirabeau ; in  the  cell  of  Galileo  ; on  the  scaSold  of 
Sidney.  But  who  shall  estimate  her  influence  on  private 
happiness  ? Who  shall  say  how  many  thousands  have  been 
made  wiser,  happier,  and  better,  by  those  pursuits  in  which 
she  has  taught  mankind  to  engage  ; to  how  many  the  studies 
which  took  their  rise  from  her  have  been  wealth  in  poverty, 
—liberty  in  bondage,— health  in  sickness,— society  in  solb 


ON  MlTFOliD  S HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 


147 


v;iide?  Pier  ])Ower  is  indeed  manifested  at  the  bar,  In  the 
senate,  in  the  field  of  battle,  in  the  schools  of  philosophy. 
But  these  are  not  her  glory.  Wherever  literature  consoles 
sorrow,  or  assuages  pain, — wherever  it  brings  gladness  to  eyes 
which  fail  with  wakefulness  and  tears,  and  ache  for  the  dark 
house  and  the  long  sleep, — there  is  exhibited,  in  its  noblest 
form,  the  immortal  influence  of  Athens. 

The  dervise,  in  the  Arabian  tale,  did  not  hesitate  to 
abandon  to  his  comrade  the  camels  with  their  load  of  jewels 
and  gold,  while  he  retained  the  casket  of  that  mysterious 
juice  which  enabled  him  to  behold  at  one  glance  all  the 
hidden  riches  of  the  universe.  Surely  it  is  no  exaggeration 
to  say  that  no  external  advantage  is  to  be  compared  with 
that  purification  of  the  intellectual  eye  which  gives  us  to 
contem])late  the  infinite  wealth  of  the  mental  world,  all  the 
hoarded  treasures  of  its  primeval  dynasties,  all  the  shape- 
less ore  of  its  yet  unexplored  mines.  This  is  the  gift  of 
Athens  to  man.  Her  freedom  and  her  power  have  for  more 
than  twenty  centuries  been  annihilated ; her  people  have 
degenerated  into  timid  slaves ; her  language  into  a barbar- 
ous jargon  ; her  temples  have  been  given  up  to  the  success- 
ive depredations  of  Romans,  Turks,  and  Scotchmen  ; but 
her  intellectual  empire  is  imperishable.  And  when  those 
who  have  rivalled  her  greatness  shall  have  shared  her  fate  ; 
w^hen  civilization  and  knowledge  shall  have  fixed  their  abode 
in  distant  continents ; when  the  sceptre  shall  have  passed 
away  from  England  ; when,  perhaps,  travellers  from  distant 
regions  shall  in  vain  labor  to  decipher  on  some  mouldering 
pedestal  the  name  of  our  proudest  chief ; shall  hear  savage 
hymns  chaunted  to  some  misshapen  idol,  over  the  ruined 
dome  of  our  proudest  temple ; and  shall  see  a single  naked 
fisherman  wash  his  nets  in  the  river  of  the  ten  thousand 
masts ; — her  influence  and  her  glory  will  still  survive, — fresh 
in  eternal  youth,  exempt  from  mutability  and  decay,  immor- 
tal as  the  intellectual  principle  from  which  they  derived 
their  origin,  and  over  which  they  exercised  their  control. 


148 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  aveitings. 


MILTON.^ 

{Edinburgh  Review,  August,  1825.) 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1823,  Mr.  Lemon,  deputy 
keeper  of  the  state  papers,  in  the  course  of  his  researches 
among  the  presses  of  his  office,  met  with  a large  Latin  man- 
uscript. With  it  were  found  corrected  copies  of  the  foreign 
despatches  written  by  Milton,  while  he  filled  the  office  of 
Secretary,  and  several  papers  relating  to  the  Popish  Trials 
and  the  Rye-house  Plot.  The  whole  was  wrapped  up  in  an 
envelope,  superscribed  To  Mr,  Skinner,,  Merchant,  On  ex- 
amination, the  large  manuscript  proved  to  be  the  long  lost 
Essay  on  the  Doctrines  of  Christianity,  which,  according  to 
Wood  and  Toland,  Milton  finished  after  the  Restoration, 
and  deposited  with  Cyriac  Skinner.  Skinner,  it  is  well 
known,  held  the  same  political  opinions  with  his  illustrious 
friend.  It  is  therefore  probable,  as  Mr.  Lemon  conjectures, 
that  he  may  have  fallen  under  the  suspicions  of  the  govern- 
ment during  that  persecution  of  the  Whigs  which  followed 
the  dissolution  of  the  Oxford  parliament,  and  that,  in  con- 
sequence of  a general  seizure  of  his  papers,  this  work  may 
have  been  brought  to  the  office  in  which  it  has  been  found. 
But  whatever  the  adventures  of  the  manuscript  may  have 
been,  no  doubt  can  exist  that  it  is  a genuine  relic  of  the 
great  poet. 

Mr.  Sumner,  who  was  commanded  by  his  Majesty  to 
edit  and  translate  the  treatise,  has  acquitted  himself  of  his 
task  in  a manner  honorable  to  his  talents  and  to  his  char- 
acter. His  version  is  not  indeed  very  easy  or  elegant ; but  it 
is  entitled  to  the  praise  of  clearness  and  fidelity.  His  notes 
abound  with  interesting  quotations,  and  have  the  rare  merit 
of  really  elucidating  the  text.  The  preface  is  evidently  the 
work  of  a sensible  and  candid  man,  firm  in  his  own  religious 
opinions,  and  tolerant  towards  those  of  others. 

The  book  itself  will  not  add  much  to  the  fame  of  Milton 
It  is,  like  all  his  Latin  works,  well  written,  though  not  ex- 
actly in  the  style  of  the  prize  essays  of  Oxford  and  Cam- 

♦ Jonnis  Miltoni  Angli,  de  Doctrind  Christiand  lihri  duo  posthumi.  A Treatise 
on  Christian  Doctrine,  compiled  from  the  Holy  Scriptures  alone.  By  John 
Milton,  translated  from  the  Original  by  Charles  R.  Sumner,  M.A.,  &c.  &c.  1825. 


MILTON. 


149 


bridge.  There  is  no  elaborate  imitation  of  classical  antiq- 
uity, no  scrupulous  purity,  none  of  the  ceremonial  cleanness 
which  characterizes  the  diction  of  our  academical  Phari- 
sees. The  author  does  not  attempt  to  polish  and  brighten 
his  composition  into  the  Ciceronian  gloss  and  brilliancy. 
He  does  not  in  short  sacrifice  sense  and  spirit  to  pedantic 
refinements.  The  nature  of  his  subject  compelled  him  to  use 
many  words 

“ That  would  have  made  Quintilian  stare  and  gasp.** 

But  he  writes  with  as  much  ease  and  freedom  as  if  Latin 
were  his  mother  tongue  ; and,  where  he  is  least  happy,  his 
failure  seems  to  arise  from  the  carelessness  of  a native,  not 
from  the  ignorance  of  a foreigner.  We  may  apply  to  him 
what  Denham  with  great  felicity  says  of  Cowley.  He 
wears  the  garb,  but  not  the  clothes  of  the  ancients. 

Throughout  the  volume  are  discernible  the  traces  of  a 
powerful  and  independent  mind,  emancipated  from  the  in- 
fluence of  authority,  and  devoted  to  the  search  of  truth. 
Milton  professes  to  form  his  system  from  the  Bible  alone ; 
and  his  digest  of  scriptural  texts  is  certainly  among  the  best 
that  have  appeared.  But  he  is  not  always  so  happy  in  his 
inferences  as  in  his  citations. 

Some  of  the  heterodox  doctrines  which  he  avows  seemed 
to  have  excited  considerable  amazement,  particularly  his 
Arianism,  and  his  theory  on  the  subject  of  polygamy.  Yet 
we  can  scarcely  conceive  that  any  person  could  have  read 
the  Paradise  Lost  without  suspecting  him  of  the  former ; 
nor  do  we  think  that  any  reader,  acquainted  with  the  his- 
tory of  his  life,  ought  to  be  much  startled  at  the  latter.  The 
opinions  which  he  has  expressed  respecting  the  nature  of 
the  Deity,  the  eternity  of  matter,  and  the  observation  of 
the  Sabbath,  might,  we  think,  have  caused  more  just  sur- 
prise. 

But  we  will  not  go  into  the  discussion  of  these  points. 
The  book,  were  it  far  more  orthodox  or  far  more  heretical 
than  it  is,  would  not  much  edify  or  corrupt  the  present  gen- 
eration. The  men  of  our  time  are  not  to  be  converted  or 
perverted  by  quartos.  A few  more  days,  and  this  essay 
will  follow  the  Defensio  PopuU^  to  the  dust  and  silence  of 
the  upper  shelf.  The  name  of  its  author,  and  the  remark- 
able circumstances  attending  its  publication,  will  secure  to 
it  a certain  degree  of  attention.  For  a month  or  two  it  will 
occupy  a few  minutes  of  chat  in  every  drawing-room,  and  a 


150 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


few  columns  in  every  magazine  ; and  it  will  then,  to  borrow 
the  elegant  language  of  the  })lay-bills,  be  withdrawn,  tc 
make  room  for  the  forthcoming  novelties. 

We  wish  how^ever  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  interest,  transient 
as  it  may  be,  which  this  work  has  excited.  The  dexterous 
Capuchins  never  choose  to  preach  on  the  life  and  miracles  of 
a saint,  till  they  liave  awakened  the  devotional  feelings  of 
tlieir  auditors  by  exhibiting  some  relic  of  him,  a thread  of 
i.is  garment,  a lock  of  his  hair,  or  a drop  of  his  blood.  On 
ilie  same  principle,  w^e  intend  to  take  advantage  of  the  late 
interesting  discovery,  and,  w^hile  this  memorial  of  a great 
and  good  man  is  still  in  the  hands  of  all,  to  say  something  of 
his  moral  and  intellectual  qualities.  Nor,  we  are  convinced, 
wdll  the  severest  of  our  readers  blame  us  if,  on  an  occasion 
like  the  present,  Ave  turn  for  a short  time  from  the  topics  of 
the  day,  to  commemorate,  in  all  love  and  reverence,  the 
genius  and  virtues  of  John  Milton,  the  poet,  the  statesman, 
the  philosopher,  the  glory  of  English  literature,  the  champion 
and  the  martyr  of  English  liberty 

It  is  by  his  poetry  that  Milton  is  best  known  ; and  it  is 
of  his  poetry  that  Ave  Avish  first  to  speak.  By  the  general 
suffrage  of  the  civilized  world,  his  place  has  been  assigned 
among  the  greatest  masters  of  the  art.  His  detractors, 
however,  though  outA-oted,  have  not  been  silenced.  There 
are  many  critics,  and  some  of  great  name,  who  contrive  in 
the  same  breath  to  extol  the  poems  and  to  decry  the  poet. 
The  AA^orks  they  acknoAvledge,  considered  in  themselves,  may 
be  classed  among  the  noblest  productions  of  the  human  mind 
But  they  Avill  not  alloAV  the  author  to  rank  wdth  those  great 
men  Avho,  born  in  the  infancy  of  civilization,  supplied,  by 
their  OAvn  powers,  the  want  of  instruction,  and,  though 
destitute  of  models  themseh^es,  bequeathed  to  posterity 
models  which  defy  imitation.  Milton,  it  is  said,  inherited 
Avhat  his  predecessors  created  ; he  lived  in  an  enlightened 
age  ; he  receh^ed  a finished  education  ; and  we  must  there- 
fore, if  AA^e  AA^ould  form  a just  estimate  of  his  powers,  make 
ou’ge  deductions  in  consideration  of  these  advantages. 

W e A^enture  to  say,  on  the  contrary,  paradoxical  as  the 
remark  may  appear,  that  no  poet  has  ever  had  to  strug- 
gle with  more  unfaA^orable  circumstances  than  Milton.  He 
doubted,  as  he  has  himself  owned,  w^hether  he  had  not  been 
born  “ an  age  too  late.”  For  this  notion  Johnson  has  thought 
fit  to  make  him  the  butt  of  much  clumsy  ridicule.  The  poet, 
we  believe,  understood  the  nature  of  his  art  better  than  the 


MILTOIi. 


151 


critic.  He  knew  that  his  poetical  genius  derived  no  advan« 
tage  from  the  civilization  which  surrounded  him,  or  from  the 
learning  which  he  had  acquired  ; and  he  looked  back  with 
something  like  regret  to  the  ruder  age  of  simple  words  and 
vivid  impressions. 

We  think  that,  as  civilization  advances,  poetry  almost 
necessarily  declines.  Therefore,  though  we  fervently  admire 
those  great  works  of  imagination  which  have  appeared  in 
dark  ages,  we  do  not  admire  them  the  more  because  they 
have  appeared  in  dark  ages.  On  the  contrary,  we  hold  that 
the  most  wonderful  and  splendid  proof  of  genius  is  a great 
poem  produced  in  a civilized  age.  We  cannot  understana 
why  those  Avho  believe  in  that  most  orthodox  article  of  liter- 
ary faith,  that  the  earliest  poets  are  generally  the  best,  should 
wonder  at  the  rule  as  if  it  were  the  exception.  Surely  the 
uniformity  of  the  pha3nomenon  indicates  a corresponding 
uniformity  in  the  cause. 

The  fact  is,  that  common  observers  reason  from  the 
progress  of  the  experimental  science  to  that  of  the  imitative 
arts.  The  improvement  of  the  former  is  gradual  and  slow. 
Ages  are  spent  in  collecting  materials,  ages  more  in  sep- 
arating and  combining  them.  Even  when  a system  has  been 
formed,  there  is  still  something  to  add,  to  alter,  or  to  reject. 
Every  generation  enjoys  the  use  of  a vast  hoard  bequeathed  to 
it  by  antiquity,  and  transmits  that  hoard,  augmented  by  fresh 
acquisitions,  to  future  ages.  In  these  pursuits,  therefore, 
the  first  speculators  lie  under  great  disadvantages,  and,  even 
when  they  fail,  are  entitled  to  praise.  Their  pupils,  with 
far  inferior  intellectual  powers,  speedily  surpass  them  in 
actual  attainments.  Every  girl  who  has  read  Mrs.  Marcet’s 
little  dialogues  on  Political  Economy  could  teach  Montague 
or  Walpole  many  lessons  in  finance.  Any  intelligent  man 
may  now,  by  resolutely  applying  himself  for  a few  years  to 
mathematics,  learn  more  than  the  great  Newton  knew  after 
half  a century  of  study  and  meditation. 

But  it  is  not  thus  with  music,  with  painting,  or  with 
sculpture.  Still  less  is  it  thus  with  poetry.  The  progress  of 
refinement  rarely  supplies  these  arts  with  better  objects  of 
imitation.  It  may  indeed  improve  the  instruments  which 
are  necessary  to  the  mechanical  operations  of  the  musician, 
the  sculptor,  and  the  painter.  But  language,  the  machine 
of  the  poet,  is  best  fitted  for  his  purpose  in  its  rudest  state. 
Nations,  like  individuals,  first  perceive,  and  then  abstract. 
They  advance  from  particular  images  to  geneml  terms. 


152 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


TTence  llic  vocabulary  of  an  cnliglitcned  society  is  philo- 
Bopliical,  tliat  of  a half-civilized  people  is  ])oetical. 

This  change  in  the  language  of  men  is  ])artly  the  cause 
and  partly  the  effect  of  a corresponding  change  in  the  na- 
ture of  their  intellectual  o})crations,  of  a change  hy  which 
science  gains  and  poetry  loses.  Generalization  is  necessary 
to  the  advancement  of  knowledge ; hut  particularly  is  indis- 
pensable to  the  creations  of  the  imagination.  In  proportion 
as  men  know  more  and  think  more,  they  look  less  at  indi- 
viduals and  more  at  classes.  They  therefore  make  better 
theories  and  Averse  poems.  They  give  us  vague  phrases 
instead  of  images,  and  personified  qualities  instead  of  men. 
They  may  be  better  able  to  analyze  human  nature  than  their 
predecessors.  But  analysis  is  not  the  business  of  the  poet. 
His  office  is  to  portray,  not  to  dissect.  lie  may  believe  in 
a moral  sense,  like  Shaftesbury ; he  may  refer  all  human 
actions  to  self-interest,  like  Ilelvetius  ; or  ho  may  never  think 
about  the  matter  at  all.  His  creed  on  such  subjects  will  no 
more  influence  his  poetry,  properly  so  called,  then  the  notions 
Avhich  a painter  may  have  conceh^ed  respecting  the  lacrymal 
glands,  or  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  Avill  affect  the  tears  of 
his  Niobe,  or  the  blushes  of  his  Aurora.  If  Shakspeare  had 
Avritten  a book  on  the  motives  of  human  actions,  it  is  by  no 
means  certain  that  it  Avould  have  been  a good  one.  It  is 
extremely  improbable  that  it  would  have  contained  half  so 
much  able  reasoning  on  the  subject  as  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Fable  of  the  Bees.  But  could  MandeAulle  haA^e  created  an 
lago  ? Well  as  he  knew  hoAv  to  resoh^e  characters  into  their 
elements,  would  he  liaA^e  been  able  to  combine  those  elements 
in  such  a manner  as  to  make  up  a man,  a real,  living,  indi- 
Audual  man  ? 

Perhaps  no  person  can  be  a poet,  or  can  even  enjoy 
poetry,  without  a certain  unsoundness  of  mind,  if  any  thing 
which  gives  so  much  pleasure  ought  to  be  called  unsoundness. 
By  poetry  we  mean  not  all  writing  in  verse,  nor  eA^en  all 
good  writing  in  Averse.  Our  definition  excludes  many  metrical 
compositions  Avdiich,  on  other  grounds,  deserA^e  the  highest 
praise.  By  poetry  we  mean  the  art  of  employing  words  in 
such  a manner  as  to  produce  an  illusion  on  the  imagination, 
the  art  of  doing  by  means  of  words  what  the  painter  does 
by  means  of  colors.  Thus  the  greatest  of  poets  has  described 
it,  in  lines  universally  admired  for  the  vigor  and  felicity  oi 
their  diction,  and  still  more  valuable  on  account  of  the  just 
iiotion  which  they  convey  of  the  art  in  which  he  excelled  » 


MILTOK. 


153 


“As  imagiDation  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet’s  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A local  habitation  and  a name.’’ 

These  are  the  fruits  of  the  ‘‘  fine  frenzy  ” which  he  as- 
cribes to  the  poet, — a fine  frenzy  doubtless,  but  still  a 
frenzy.  Truth,  indeed,  is  essential  to  poetry ; but  it  is  the 
truth  of  madness.  The  reasonings  are  just ; but  the  prem- 
ises are  false.  After  the  first  suppositions  have  been  made, 
every  thing  ought  to  be  consistent  ; but  those  first  suppo- 
sitions require  a degree  of  credulity  which  almost  amounts 
to  a partial  and  temporary  derangement  of  the  intellect. 
Hence  of  all  people  cliildren  are  the  most  imaginative.  They 
abandon  themselves  without  reserve  to  every  illusion.  Every 
image  which  is  strongly  presented  to  their  mental  eye  pro- 
duces on  them  the  effect  of  reality.  No  man,  whatever  his 
sensibility  may  be,  is  ever  affected  by  Hamlet  or  Lear,  as  a 
little  girl  is  affected  by  the  story  of  poor  Red  Riding-hood. 
She  knows  that  it  is  all  false,  that  wolves  cannot  speak,  that 
there  arc  no  wolves  in  England.  Yet  in  spite  of  her  knowl- 
edge she  believes ; she  weeps  ; she  trembles ; she  dares  not 
go  into  a dark  room  lest  she  should  feel  the  teeth  of  the 
monster  at  her  throat.  Such  is  the  despotism  of  the  im- 
agination over  uncultivated  minds. 

In  a rude  state  of  society  men  are  children  with  a greater 
variety  of  ideas.  It  is  therefore  in  such  a state  of  society 
that  we  may  expect  to  find  the  poetical  temperament  in  its 
highest  perfection.  In  an  enlightened  age  there  will  be 
much  intelligence,  much  science,  much  pliilosophy,  abun- 
dance of  just  classification  and  subtle  analysis,  abundance  of 
Avit  and  eloquence,  adundance  of  Akerses,  and  even  of  good 
ones ; but  little  poetry.  Men  Arill  judge  and  compare ; but 
they  will  not  create.  They  will  talk  about  the  old  poets,  and 
comment  on  them,  and  to  a certain  degree  enjoy  them.  But 
they  will  scarcely  be  able  to  conceive  the  effect  which 
poetry  produced  on  their  ruder  ancestors,  the  agony,  the 
ecstasy,  the  plenitude  of  belief.  The  Greek  Rhapsodists, 
according  to  Plato,  could  scarce  recite  Homer  without  falling 
into  convulsions.  The  Mohawk  hardly  feels  the  scalping 
knife  while  he  shouts  his  death-song.  The  power  which  the 
ancient  bards  of  Wales  and  Germany  exercised  over  their 
auditors  seems  to  modern  readers  almost  miraculous.  Such 
feelings  are  very  rare  in  a civilized  community,  and  most 


154  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

rare  among  lliose  wlio  ])articij)ate  most  in  its  improvements. 
They  linger  longest  among  tlie  peasantry. 

Poetry  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of  the  mind,  as 
a magic  lantern  produces  an  illusion  on  tlie  eye  of  the  body 
And,  as  the  magic  lantern  acts  best  in  a dark  room,  poetry 
effects  its  purpose  most  completely  in  a dark  age.  As  the 
light  of  knowledge  breaks  in  ui^oii  its  exhibitions,  as  the 
outlines  of  certainty  become  more  and  more  definite,  and 
the  shades  of  probability  more  and  more  distinct,  the  hues 
and  lineaments  of  the  phantoms  which  the  poet  calls  up 
grew  fainter  and  fainter.  We  cannot  unite  the  incompati- 
ble advantages  of  reality  and  deception,  the  clear  discern- 
ment of  truth  and  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  fiction. 

He  who,  in  an  enlightened  and  literary  society,  aspires  to 
be  a great  poet,  must  first  become  a little  child.  He  must 
take  to  pieces  the  whole  web  of  his  mind.  He  must  unlearn 
much  of  that  knowledge  which  has  perhaps  constituted  hith- 
erto his  chief  title  to  superiority.  His  very  talents  will  be 
a hindrance  to  him.  His  difficulties  will  be  proportioned  to 
his  proficiency  in  the  pursuits  which  are  fashionable  among 
his  contemporaries  ; and  that  proficiency,  will  in  general  be 
proportioned  to  the  vigor  and  activity  of  his  mind.  And  it 
is  well  if,  after  all  his  sacrifices  and  exertions,  his  works  do 
not  resemble  a lisping  man  or  a modern  ruin.  We  have 
seen  in  our  own  time  great  talents,  intense  labor,  and  long 
meditation,  employed  in  this  struggle  against  the  spirit  of 
the  age,  and  employed,  we  will  not  say,  absolutely  in  vain, 
but  with  dubious  success  and  feeble  ajqdause. 

If  these  reasonings  be  just,  no  poet  has  ever  triumphed 
over  greater  difficulties  than  Milton.  He  received  a learned 
education;  he  was  a profound  and  elegant  classical  scholar; 
he  had  studied  all  the  mysteries  of  Rabbinical  literature  ; he 
was  intimately  acquainted  with  every  language  of  modern 
Plurope,  from  which  either  pleasure  or  information  Avas  then 
to  be  derived.  He  Avas  perhaps  the  only  great  poet  of 
later  times  Avho  has  been  distinguished  by  the  excellence  of 
his  Latin  Averse.  The  genius  of  Petrarch  Avas  scarcely  of  the 
first  order ; and  his  poems  in  the  ancient  language,  though 
much  praised  by  those  Avho  have  never  read  them,  are 
Avretched  compositions.  CoAvley,  with  all  his  admirable  A\dt 
and  ingenuity,  had  little  imagination  ; nor  indeed  do  we  think 
his  classical  diction  comparable  to  that  of  Milton.  The  au- 
thority of  Johnson  is  against  us  on  this  point.  But  Johnson 
had  studied  the  bad  Avriters  of  the  middle  ages  till  he  had 


MILTON. 


155 


become  utterly  insensible  to  the  Augustan  elegance,  and  was 
as  ill  qualified  to  judge  between  two  Latin  styles  as  a 
habitual  drunkard  to  set  up  for  a wine-taster. 

Versification  in  a dead  language  is  an  exotic,  a far-fetched, 
costly,  sickly,  imitation  of  that  which  elsewhere  may  bo 
found  in  Iiealthful  and  spontaneous  perfection.  The  soils 
on  which  this  rarity  flourishes  are  in  general  as  ill-suited  to 
the  production  of  vigorous  native  poetry  as  the  flower-pots  of 
a hot-house  to  the  growth  of  oaks.  That  the  author  of  the 
Paradise  Lost  should  have  written  the  Epistle  to  Manso  was 
truly  wonderful.  Never  before  were  such  marked  origin- 
ality and  such  exquisite  mimicry  found  together.  Indeed 
in  all  the  Latin  poems  of  Milton  the  artificial  manner  in- 
dispensable to  such  works  is  admirably  preserved,  vdiile,  at 
the  same  time,  his  genius  gives  to  them  a peculiar  charm,  an 
air  of  nobleness  and  freedom,  wdiich  distinguishes  them  from 
all  other  writings  of  the  same  class.  They  remind  us  of  the 
amusements  of  those  angelic  warriors  who  composed  the 
cohort  of  Gabriel : 

“ About  him  exercised  heroic  games 
The  unarmed  youth  of  heaven.  But  o’er  their  heads 
Celestial  armory,  shield,  helm,  and  spear. 

Hung  high,  with  diamond  flaming  and  with  gold.  ” 

We  cannot  look  upon  the  sportive  exercises  for  which  the 
genius  of  Milton  ungirds  itself,  without  catching  a glimpse 
of  the  gorgeous  and  terrible  panoply  which  it  is  accustomed 
to  wear.  The  strength  of  his  imagination  triumphed  over 
every  obstacle.  So  intense  and  ardent  was  the  fire  of  his 
mind,  that  it  not  only  was  not  suffocated  beneath  the  w^eight 
of  fuel,  but  penetrated  the  whole  superincumbent  mass  wdth 
its  own  heart  and  radiance. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  attempt  any  thing  like  a com- 
plete examination  of  the  poetry  of  Milton.  The  public  has 
long  been  agreed  as  to  the  merit  of  the  most  remarkable 
passages,  the  incomparable  harmony  of  the  numbers,  and 
the  excellence  of  that  style,  w^hich  no  rival  has  been  able  to 
equal,  and  no  parodist  to  degrade,  which  displays  in  their 
highest  perfection  the  idiomistic  powers  of  the  English 
tongue,  and  to  w^hich  every  ancient  and  every  modern  lan- 
guage has  contributed  something  of  grace,  of  energy,  or  of 
music.  Ill  the  vast  field  of  criticism  on  wdiich  w^e  are  enter- 
ing innumerable  reapers  have  already  put  their  sickles.  Yet 
the  harvest  is  so  abundant  that  the  negligent  search  of  a 
straggling  gleaner  may  be  rewarded  with  a sheaf. 


156  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wiutings. 

The  most  striking  cliaracteristic  of  tlie  ])oetry  of  Milton 
is  the  extreme  remoteness  of  llie  associations  hy  means  of 
which  it  acts  on  the  reader.  Its  effect  is  j)roduccd,  not  so 
much  by  what  it  expresses,  as  by  what  it  suggests  ; not  so 
much  by  the  ideas  which  it  directly  conveys,  as  by  other 
ideas  whicli  are  connected  with  them.  lie  electrifies  the  mind 
through  conductors.  The  most  unimaginative  man  must 
understand  the  Iliad.  Homer  gives  him  no  choice,  and 
requires  from  him  no  exertion,  but  takes  the  whole  u])on 
himself,  and  sets  the  images  in  so  clear  a light,  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  be  blind  to  them.  The  'works  of  Milton  cannot 
be  comprehended  or  enjoyed,  unless  the  mind  of  the  reader 
co-operate  with  that  of  the  Avriter.  He  docs  not  paint  a 
finished  picture,  or  j)lay  for  a mere  passive  listener.  He 
sketches,  and  leaves  others  to  fill  up  the  outline.  He  strikes 
the-key-note,  and  expects  his  hearer  to  make  out  the  melody. 

We  often  hear  of  the  magical  influence  of  poetry.  The 
expression  in  general  means  nothing:  but,  applied  to  the 
Avritings  of  Milton,  it  is  most  appropriate.  His  poetry 
acts  like  an  incantation.  Its  merit  lies  less  in  its  obvious 
meaning  than  in  its  occult  poAver.  There  Avould  seem,  at 
first  sight,  to  be  no  more  in  his  A\"ords  than  in  other  words. 
But  they  are  words  of  enchantment.  No  sooner  are  they 
pronounced,  than  the  past  is  present  and  the  distant  near. 
New  forms  of  beauty  start  at  once  into  existence,  and  all 
the  burial-places  of  the  memory  give  up  their  dead:  Change 

the  structure  of  the  sentence  ; substitute  one  synonyme  for 
another,  and  the  whole  effect  is  destroyed.  The  spell  loses 
its  power  ; and  he  Avho  should  then  hope  to  conjure  with 
it  Avould  find  himself  as  much  mistaken  as  Cassini  in  the 
Arabian  tale,  when  he  stood  crying,  “ Open  Wheat,”  “ Open 
Barley,”  to  the  door  which  obeyed  no  sound  but  “Open 
Sesame.”  The  miserable  failure  of  Dryden  in  his  attempt 
to  translate  into  his  own  diction  some  part  of  the  Paradise 
Lost,  is  a remarkable  instance  of  this. 

In  support  of  these  observations  we  may  remark,  that 
scarcely  any  passages  in  the  poems  of  Milton  are  more  gen- 
erally known  or  more  frequently  repeated  than  those  which 
are  little  more  than  muster-rolls  of  names.  They  are  not 
always  more  appropriate  or  more  melodious  than  other 
names.  But  they  are  charmed  names.  Every  one  of  them 
is  the  first  link  in  a long  chain  of  associated  ideas.  Like  the 
dwelling-place  of  our  infancy  revisited  in  manhood,  like  the 
song  of  our  country  .heard  in  a strange  land,  they  produce 


MILTON. 


157 


upon  us  an  effect  wholly  independent  of  their  intrinsic  value. 
One  transports  us  back  to  a remote  period  of  history 
Another  places  us  among  the  novel  scenes  and  manners  of  a 
distant  region.  A third  evokes  all  the  dear  classical  recol- 
lections of  childhood,  the  school-room,  the  dog-eared  Virgil, 
the  holiday,  and  the  prize.  A fourth  brings  before  us  the 
splendid  phantoms  of  chivalrous  romance,  the  trophied  lists, 
the  embroidered  housings,  the  quaint  devices,  the  haunted 
forests,  the  enchanted  gardens,  the  achievements  of  enam- 
ored knights,  and  the  smiles  of  rescued  princesses. 

In  none  of  the  works  of  Milton  is  his  peculiar  manner 
more  happily  displayed  than  in  Allegro  and  the  Penseroso. 
It  is  impossible  to  conceive  that  the  mechanism  of  language 
can  be  brought  to  a more  exquisite  degree  of  perfection. 
These  poems  differ  from  others,  as  atar  of  roses  differs  from 
ordinary  rose  water,  the  close  packed  essence  from  the  thin 
diluted  mixture.  They  are  indeed  not  so  much  poems,  as 
collections  of  hints,  from  each  of  which  the  reader  is  to  make 
out  a poem  for  himself.  Every  epithet  is  a text  for  a stanza. 

The  Comus  and  the  Samson  Agonistes  are  works  which, 
though  of  very  different  merit,  offer  some  marked  points 
of  resemblance.  Both  arc  lyric  poems  in  the  form  of  plays. 
There  are  perhaps  no  two  kinds  of  composition  so  essen- 
tially dissimilar  as  the  drama  and  the  ode.  The  business 
of  the  dramatist  is  to  keep  himself  out  of  sight,  and  to  let 
nothing  appear  but  his  characters.  As  soon  as  he  attracts 
notice  to  his  personal  feelings,  the  illusion  is  broken.  The 
effect  is  as  unpleasant  as  that  which  is  produced  on  the 
stage  by  the  voice  of  a prompter  or  the  entrance  of  a scene- 
shifter.  Hence  it  was,  that  the  tragedies  of  Byron  were  his 
least  successful  performances.  They  resemble  those  paste- 
board pictures  invented  by  the  friend  of  children,  Mr.  New- 
bury, in  which  a single  movable  head  goes  round  twenty 
different  bodies,  so  that  the  same  face  looks  out  upon  us 
successively,  from  the  uniform  of  a hussar,  the  furs  of  a 
judge,  and  the  rags  of  a beggar.  In  all  the  characters, 
patriots  and  tyrants,  haters  and  lovers,  the  frown  and  sneer 
of  Harold  were  discernible  in  an  instant.  But  this  species 
of  egotism,  though  fatal  to  the  drama,  is  the  inspiration  of 
the  ode.  It  is  the  part  of  the  lyric  poet  to  abandon  him- 
self, without  reserve,  to  his  own  emotion. 

Between  these  hostile  elements  many  great  men  have 
endeavored  to  effect  an  amalgamation,  but  never  with  com* 
plete  ^uqcess,  The  Greek  Drama,  on  the  model  of  which 


158  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

the  Samson  was  written,  sprang  from  the  Orle.  The  - ha- 
logiie  was  ingrafted  on  tlie  chorus,  and  naturally  partoo/c  of 
its  character.  The  genius  of  the  greatest  of  tlie  Athenian 
dramatists  co-o])erated  witli  the  circumstances  under  which 
tragedy  made  its  first  a]>])earancc.  ^schylus  was,  fjead 
and  lieart,  a lyric  poet.  In  his  time,  the  Greeks  had  f«Tr 
more  intercourse  with  the  East  tlian  in  the  days  of  Ilomer  , 
and  tliey  had  not  yet  acquired  that  immense  superiority  in 
war,  m science,  and  in  the  arts,  which,  in  the  following  gen- 
eration, led  them  to  treat  the  Asiatics  with  contempt. 
From  the  narrative  of  Herodotus  it  should  seem  lhat  they 
still  looked  up,  with  the  disciples,  to  Egypt  and  Assyria. 
At  this  period,  accordingly  it  was  natural  that  the  litera- 
ture of  Greece  should  be  tinctured  with  the  Oriental  style. 
And  that  style,  we  think,  is  discernible  in  the  works  of  Pin- 
dar and  u^schylus.  The  latter  often  reminds  us  of  the 
Hebrew  writers.  The  book  of  Job,  indeed,  in  conduct  and 
diction,  bears  a considerable  resemblance  to  some  of  his 
dramas.  Considered  as  plays,  his  works  are  absurd  ; consid- 
ered as  choruses,  they  are  above  all  praise.  If,  for  instance, 
we  examine  the  address  of  Clytemnestra  to  Agamemnon 
on  his  return,  or  the  description  of  the  seven  Argive  chiefs, 
by  the  principles  of  dramatic  writing,  we  shall  instantly 
condemn  them  as  monstrous.  But  if  we  forget  the  charac- 
ters, and  think  only  of  the  poetry,  we  shall  admit  that  it  has 
never  been  surpassed  in  energy  and  magnificence.  Sophocles 
made  the  Greek  drama  as  dramatic  as  was  consistent  with 
its  original  form.  His  portraits  of  men  have  a sort  of  simi- 
larity ; but  it  is  the  similarity  not  of  a painting,  but  of  a 
bas-relief.  It  suggests  a resemblance ; but  it  does  not  pro- 
duce an  illusion.  Euripides  attempted  to  carry  the  reform 
further.  Bat  it  was  a task  far  beyond  his  poAvers,  perhaps 
beyond  any  poAvers.  Instead  of  correcting  AA^hat  was  bad, 
he  destroyed  Avhat  Avas  excellent.  He  substituted  crutches 
fr>r  stilts,  bad  sermons  for  good  odes. 

Milton,  it  is  well  known,  admired  Euripides  highly, 
much  more  highly  than,  in  our  opinion,  Euripides  deserved 
Indeed  the  caresses  which  this  partiality  leads  our  country- 
man to  bestow  on  “ sad  Electra’s  poet,”  sometimes  remind 
us  of  the  beautiful  Queen  of  Fairy-land  kissing  the  long  ears 
of  Bottom.  At  all  events,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  this 
veneration  for  the  Athenian,  Avhether  just  or  not,  was  inju- 
rious to  the  Samson  Agonistes.  Had  Milton  taken  ^schy- 
lus  for  his  model,  he  would  have  given  himself  up  to  the  lyri« 


MILTO^Q. 


159 


inspiration,  and  poured  out  profusely  all  the  treasures  of 
his  mind,  witliout  bestowing  a thouglit  on  those  dramatic 
proprieties  which  the  nature  of  the  work  rendered  it  impos- 
sible to  preserve.  In  the  attempt  to  reconcile  things  in  their 
own  nature  inconsistent,  he  has  failed,  as  every  one  else 
must  have  failed.  We  cannot  identify  ourselves  with  the 
characters,  as  in  a good  play.  We  cannot  identify  ourselves 
with  the  poet,  as  in  a good  ode.  The  conflicting  ingredients, 
like  an  acid  and  an  alkali  mixed,  neutralize  each  other. 
We  are  by  no  means  insensible  to  the  merits  of  this  cele- 
brated piece,  to  the  severe  dignity  of  the  style,  the  graceful 
and  pathetic  solemnity  of  the  opening  speech,  or  the  wild 
and  barbaric  melody  Avhich  gives  so  striking  an  effect  to 
the  choral  passages.  But  we  think  it,  we  confess,  the  least 
successful  effort  of  the  genius  of  Milton. 

The  Comus  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the  Italian 
Masque,  as  the  Samson  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the 
Greek  Tragedy.  It  is  certainly  the  noblest  performance  of 
the  kind  which  exists  in  any  language.  It  is  as  far  superior 
to  the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  as  the  Faithful  Shepherdess  is 
to  the  Aminta,  or  the  Aminta  to  the  Pastor  Fido.  It  was 
w^ell  for  Milton  that  he  had  here  no  Euripides  to  mislead 
him.  He  understood  and  loved  the  literature  of  modern 
Italy.  But  he  did  not  feel  for  it  the  same  veneration  which 
he  entertained  for  the  remains  of  Athenian  and  Roman 
poetry,  consecrated  by  so  many  lofty  and  endearing  recob 
lections.  The  faults,  moreover,  of  his  Italian  predecessors 
were  of  a kind  to  wliich  his  mind  had  a deadly  antipathy. 
He  could  stoop  to  a plain  style,  sometimes  even  to  a bald 
style ; but  false  brilliancy  was  his  utter  aversion.  His  muse 
bad  no  objection  to  a russet  attire;  but  she  turned  with 
disgust  from  the  finery  of  Guarini,  as  tawdry  and  as  paltry 
as  the  rags  of  a chimney-sweeper  on  May-day.  Whatever 
ornaments  she  w^ears  are  of  massive  gold,  not  only  dazzling 
to  the  sight,  but  capable  of  standing  the  severest  test  of 
the  crucible. 

Milton  attended  in  the  Comus  to  the  distinction  which 
he  afterwards  neglected  in  the  Samson.  He  made  his 
Masque  what  it  ought  to  be,  essentially  lyrical,  and  dramatic 
only  in  semblance.  He  has  not  attempted  a fruitless  strug- 
gle against  a defect  inherent  in  the  nature  of  that  species  of 
composition  ; and  he  has  therefore  succeeded,  wherever  suc- 
cess was  not  impossible.  The  speeches  must  be  read  as  ma- 
jestic soliloquies ; and  he  yv^ho  so  reads  them  will  be  enrap- 


ICO 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 


tiirod  with  llicir  eloquence,  tlieir  sulilimity,  and  their  music. 
The  internij)tions  of  tlie  dialogue,  liowever,  iin})Ose  a con- 
straint uj)on  the  writer,  and  break  the  illusion  of  the  reader. 
The  finest  passages  are  those  wliicli  are  lyric  in  form  as  well 
as  in  spirit.  “ I should  much  commend,”  says  the  excellent 
Sir  Henry  Wotteri  in  a letter  to  Milton,  “the  tragical  part 
if  tlie  lyrical  did  not  ravish  me  with  a certain  Dorique 
delicacy  in  your  songs  and  odes,  whereunto,  I must  plainly 
confess  to  you,  I liave  seen  yet  nothing  parallel  in  our 
language.”  The  criticism  was  just.  It  is  when  Milton  es- 
capes from  the  shackles  of  the  dialogue,  when  he  is  dis- 
charged from  the  labor  of  uniting  two  incongruous  styles, 
when  he  is  at  liberty  to  indulge  his  choral  raptures  without 
reserve,  that  he  rises  even  above  himself.  Then,  like  his  own 
good  Genius  bursting  from  the  earthly  form  and  weeds  of 
Thyrsis,  he  stands  forth  in  celestial  freedom  and  beauty ; 
he  seems  to  cry  exultingly, 

“ Now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 

I can  fly  or  I can  run,” 

to  skim  the  earth,  to  soar  above  the  clouds,  to  bathe  in  the 
Elysian  dew  of  the  rainbow,  and  to  inhale  the  balmy  smells 
of  Hard  and  cassia,  which  the  musky  winds  of  the  zephyr 
scatter  through  the  cedared  alleys  of  the  Hesperides. 

There  are  several  of  the  minor  poems  of  Milton  on 
which  we  would  willingly  make  a few  remarks.  Still  more 
willingly  would  we  enter  into  a detailed  examination  of  that 
admirable  poem,  the  Paradise  Regained,  which,  strangely 
enough,  is  scarcely  ever  mentioned  except  as  an  instance  of 
the  blindness  of  the  parental  affection  which  men  of  letters 
bear  towards  the  offspring  of  their  intellects.  That  Milton 
was  mistaken  in  preferring  this  work,  excellent  as  it  is,  to 
the  Paradise  Lost,  we  readily  admit.  But  we  are  sure  that 
the  superiority  of  the  Paradise  Lost  to  the  Paradise  Re- 
gained is  not  more  decided,  than  the  superiority  of  the 
Paradise  Regained  to  every  poem  which  has  since  made  its 
appearance.  Our  limits,  however,  prevent  us  from  discuss- 
ing the  point  at  length.  We  hasten  on  to  that  extraordi- 
nary production  which  the  general  suffrage  of  critics  has 
placed  in  the  highest  class  of  human  compositions. 

The  only  poem  of  modern  times  which  can  be  compared 
with  the  Paradise  Lost  is  the  Divine  Comedy.  The  subject 
of  Milton,  in  some  points,  resembled  that  of  Dante  ; but  he 
has  treated  it  in  a widely  different  manner.  We  cannot,  we 


MILTON. 


161 


think,  better  illustrate  our  opinion  respecting  our  own  great 
poet,  than  by  contrasting  him  with  the  father  of  Tuscan 
literature. 

The  poetry  of  Milton  differs  from  that  of  Dante,  as  the 
hieroglyphics  of  Egypt  differed  from  the  picture-writing  of 
Mexico.  The  images  which  Dante  employs  speak  for  tlicm- 
selves  ; they  stand  simply  for  what  they  are.  Those  of  Mil 
ion  have  a signification  which  is  often  discernible  only  to 
the  initiated.  Their  value  depends  less  on  what  they  directly 
represent  than  on  what  they  remotely  suggest.  However 
strange,  however  grotesque,  may  be  the  appearance  which 
Dante  undertakes  to  describe,  he  never  shrinks  from  describ- 
ing it.  lie  gives  us  the  shape,  the  color,  the  sound,  the 
smell,  the  taste  ; he  counts  the  numbers ; he  measures  the 
size.  His  similes  are  the  illustrations  of  a traveller.  Unlike 
those  of  other  poets,  and  especially  of  Milton,  they  are  in- 
troduced in  a plain,  business-like  manner  ; not  for  the  sake 
of  any  beauty  in  the  objects  from  which  they  are  drawn  ; 
not  for  the  sake  of  any  ornament  which  they  may  impart  to 
the  poem  ; but  simply  in  order  to  make  the  meaning  of  the 
writer  as  clear  to  the  reader  as  it  is  to  himself.  The  ruins 
of  the  precipice  which  led  from  the  sixth  to  the  seventh 
circle  of  hell  were  like  those  of  the  rock  which  fell  into  the 
Adige  on  the  south  of  Trent.  The  cataract  of  Phlegethon 
was  like  that  of  Aqua  Cheta  at  the  monastery  of  St.  Bene- 
dict. The  place  where  the  heretics  were  confined  in  burn- 
ing tombs  resembled  the  vast  cemetery  of  Arles. 

Now  let  us  compare  with  the  exact  details  of  Dante  the 
dim  intimations  of  Milton.  We  will  cite  a few  examples. 
The  English  poet  has  never  thought  of  taking  the  measure 
of  Satan.  He  gives  us  merely  a vague  idea  of  vast  bulk. 
In  one  passage  the  fiend  lies  stretched  out  huge  in  length, 
fioating  many  a rood,  equal  in  size  to  the  earth-born  ene- 
mies of  Jove,  or  to  the  sea-monster  which  the  mariner  mis- 
takes for  an  island.  When  he  addresses  himself  to  battle 
against  the  guardian  angels,  he  stands  like  Teneriffe  or  At- 
las : his  stature  reaches  the  sky.  Contrast  with  these  de- 
scriptions the  lines  in  which  Dante  has  described  the  gigantic 
spectre  of  Nimrod.  “ His  face  seemed  to  me  as  long  and 
as  broad  as  the  ball  of  St.  Peters  at  Rome ; and  his  other 
limbs  were  in  proportion  ; so  that  the  bank,  which  concealed 
him  from  the  waist  downwards,  nevertheless  showed  so  much 
of  him,  that  three  tall  Germans  would  in  vain  have 
tempted  to  reach  to  his  hair.”  We  are  sensible  that  we  do 
VoL.  I.— 11 


lt)2  jjacaulay’s  miscellaneous  wpjtinos. 

no  justice  to  tlie  admirable  style  of  the  Florentine  poet. 
But  Mr.  Cary’s  translation  is  not  at  hand  ; and  our  version, 
however  rude,  is  sutlieient  to  illustrate  our  meaning. 

Once  more,  compare  the  lazar-house  in  the  eleventh  book 
of  the  Paradise  Lost  with  the  last  ward  of  Malebolge  in 
Dante.  Milton  avoids  the  loathsome  details,  and  takes  re- 
fuge  in  indistinct  but  solemn  and  tremendous  imagery, 
Despair  hurrying  from  couch  to  couch  to  mock  the  wretches 
with  his  attendance.  Death  shaking  his  dart  over  them,  but, 
in  spite  of  supplications,  delaying  to  strike.  What  says 
Dante?  “ There  was  such  a moan  there  as  there  would  be 
if  all  the  sick  who,  between  July  and  September,  are  in  the 
hospitals  of  Valdichiana,  and  of  the  Tuscan  swamps,  and  of 
Sardinia,  were  in  one  pit  together ; and  such  a stench  was 
issuing  forth  as  is  w^ont  to  issue  from  decayed  limbs.” 

We  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  the  invidious  office  of 
settling  precedency  between  two  such  writers.  Each  in  his 
own  department  is  incomparable  ; and  each,  w^e  may  re- 
mark, has  wdsely,  or  fortunately,  taken  a subject  adapted  to 
Q-xhibit  his  peculiar  talent  to  the  greatest  advantage.  The 
Divine  Comedy  is  a personal  narrative.  Dante  is  the  eye- 
witness and  ear-witn(‘ss  of  that  which  he  relates.  lie  is  the 
very  man  who  has  heard  the  tormented  spirits  crying  out 
for  the  second  death,  who  has  read  the  dusky  characters  on 
tlie  portal  within  which  there  is  no  hope,  who  has  hidden 
his  face  from  the  terrors  of  the  Gorgon,  wffio  has  fled  from 
the  liooks  and  the  seething  pitch  of  Barbariccia  and  Drag- 
hignazzo.  TTis  own  hands  have  grasped  the  shaggy  sides  of 
Lucifer.  His  own  feet  have  climbed  the  mountain  of  expia- 
tion. His  own  brow  has  been  marked  by  the  purifying 
angel.  The  reader  would  tlirow  aside  such  a tale  in  incredu- 
aDus  disgust,  unless  it  were  told  with  the  strongest  air  of 
veracity,  with  a sobriety  even  in  its  horrors,  with  the  great- 
est precision  and  multiplicity  in  its  details.  The  narrative 
of  Milton  in  this  respect  differs  from  that  of  Dante,  as  the 
adventures  of  Amadis  differ  from  those  of  Gulliver.  The 
author  of  Amadis  would  have  made  his  book  ridiculous  if  he 
had  introduced  those  minute  particulars  wdiich  give  such  a 
charm  to  the  work  of  Swift,  the  nautical  observations,  the 
affected  delicacy  about  names,  the  official  documents  tran- 
scribed at  full  length,  and  all  the  unmeaning  gossip  and 
scandal  ^f  the  court,  sjiringing  out  of  nothing,  and  tending 
to  nothing.  We  are  not  shocked  at  being  told  that  a man 
who  lived,  nobody  knows  when^  saw  many  very  strange 


MILTON. 


163 


eights,  and  we  can  easily  abandon  ourselves  to  the  illusion 
of  the  romance.  But  when  Lemuel  Gulliver,  surgeon,  resi- 
dent at  llotherhithe,  tells  us  of  pygmies  and  giants,  dying 
islands,  and  philosophizing  horses,  nothing  but  such  circum- 
stantial touches  could  produce  for  a single  moment  a decep 
tion  on  the  imagination. 

Of  all  the  poets  who  have  introduced  into  their  Avorks 
the  agency  of  supernatural  beings,  Milton  has  succeeded 
best.  Here  Dante  decidedly  yields  to  him  ; and  as  this  :s 
a point  on  which  many  rash  and  ill-considered  judgments 
liave  been  jironounced,  Ave  feel  inclined  to  d\\mll  on  it  a 
little  longer.  The  most  fatal  error  Avhich  a poet  can  possi- 
bly commit  in  the  management  of  his  machinery,  is  that  of 
attempting  to  philosophize  too  much.  Milton  has  been  often 
censured  for  ascribing  to  spirits  many  functions  of  which 
spirits  must  be  incapable.  But  these  objections,  though  sanc- 
tioned by  eminent  names,  originate,  we  venture  to  say,  in 
profound  ignorance  of  tlie  art  of  poetry. 

What  is  spirit  ? What  are  our  OAvn  minds,  the  portion 
of  spirit  Avith  which  Ave  are  best  acquainted  ? W e observe 
certain  phoenomena.  We  cannot  explain  them  into  material 
causes.  We  therefore  infer  that  there  exists  something 
Avhich  is  not  material.  But  of  this  something  Ave  have  no 
idea.  We  can  define  it  only  by  negatives.  We  can  reason 
about  it  only  by  symbols.  We  use  the  Avord  : but  Ave  haAm 
no  image  of  the  thing ; and  the  business  of  poetry  is  with 
images,  and  not  Avith  words.  The  poet  uses  Avords  indeed  ; 
but  they  are  merely  the  instruments  of  his  art,  not  its  ob- 
jects. They  are  the  materials  which  he  is  to  dispose  in  such 
a manner  as  to  present  a picture  to  the  mental  eye.  And  if 
they  are  not  so  disposed,  they  are  no  more  entitled  to  be 
called  poetry  than  a bale  of  canvas  and  a box  of  colors  to  be 
called  a painting. 

Logicians  may  reason  about  abstractions.  But  the  great 
mass  of  men  must  have  images.  The  strong  tendency  c.f 
the  multitude  in  all  ages  and  nations  to  idolatry  can  be  ex- 
plained on  no  other  principle.  The  first  inhabitants  of 
Greece,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  Avorshipped  one  invisible 
Deity.  But  the  necessity  of  having  something  more  definite 
to  adore  produced,  in  a feAV  centuries,  the  innumerable 
crowd  of  Gods  and  Goddesses.  In  like  manner  the  ancient 
Persians  thought  it  impious  to  exhibit  the  Creator  under  a 
human  form.  Yet  CA^en  these  transferred  to  the  Sun  the 
worship  which,  in  speculation,  they  considered  due  only  to 


164 


macactlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


the  Supreme  Mind.  The  TTistory  of  tlie  Jews  is  the  record 
of  a continued  struggle  between  ])ure  Tlieisni,  supported  by 
the  most  terrible  sanctions,  and  tlie  strangely  fascinating  de- 
sire of  having  some  visible  and  tangible  ol)ject  of  adoration. 
Perhaps  none  of  the  secondary  causes  which  Gibbon  has  as- 
signed for  the  raj)idity  with  which  Christianity  sj>read  over 
the  world,  while  Judaism  scarcely  ever  accpiired  a proselyte, 
operated  more  i)owerfully  than  this  feeling.  God,  the  un- 
created, the  incomprehensible,  .the  invisible,  attracted  few 
worshippers.  A philosopher  might  admire  so  noble  a con- 
ception : but  the  crowd  turned  away  in  disgust  from  words 
which  presented  no  image  to  their  minds.  It  was  before 
Deity  embodied  in  a human  form,  walking  among  men,  j)ar- 
taking  of  their  infirmities,  leaning  on  their  bosoms,  w^eeping 
over  their  graves,  slumbering  in  the  manger,  bleeding  on 
the  cross,  that  the  prejudices  of  the  Synagogue,  and  the 
doubts  of  the  Academy,  and  the  pride  of  the  portico,  and 
the  fasces  of  the  Lictor,  and  the  swords  of  thirty  legions, 
w’^ere  humbled  in  the  dust.  Soon  after  Christianity  had 
achieved  its  triumph,  the  principle  which  had  assisted  it  be- 
gan to  corrupt  it.  It  became  a new  Paganism.  Patron  saints 
assumed  the  offices  of  household  gods.  St.  George  took  the 
place  of  Mars.  St.  Elmo  consoled  the  mariner  for  the  loss 
of  Castor  and  Pollux.  The  Virgin  Mother  and  Cecilia  suc- 
ceeded to  Venus  and  the  Muses.  The  fascination  of  sex  and 
loveliness  was  again  joined  to  that  of  celestial  dignity;  and 
the  homage  of  chivalry  was  blended  with  that  of  religion. 
Reformers  have  often  made  a stand  against  these  feelings ; 
but  never  with  more  then  apparent  and  partial  success. 
The  men  who  demolished  the  images  in  Cathedrals  have  not 
always  been  able  to  demolish  those  which  Avere  enshrined  in 
their  minds.  It  Avould  not  be  difficult  to  shoAV  that  in  poli- 
tics the  same  rule  holds  good.  Doctrines,  we  are  afraid, 
must  generally  be  embodied  before  they  can  excite  a strong 
public  feeling.  The  multitude  is  more  easily  interested  for 
the  most  unmeaning  badge,  or  the  most  insignificant  name, 
than  for  the  most  important  principle. 

From  these  considerations,  Ave  infer  that  no  poet,  Avho 
should  affect  that  metaphysical  accuracy  for  the  want  of 
which  Milton  has  been  blamed,  would  escape  a disgraceful 
failure.  Still,  however,  there  Avas  another  extreme,  Avhich, 
though  far  less  dangerous,  Aras  also  to  be  aA^oided.  The  im- 
aginations of  men  are  in  a great  measure  under  the  control 
cf  their  opinions.  The  most  exquisite  art  of  poetical  color- 


MILTON. 


165 


ing  can  produce  no  illusion,  when  it  is  employed  to  rep 
resent  that  which  is  at  once  perceived  to  be  incongruous  and 
absurd.  Milton  wrote  in  an  age  of  philosophers  and  theo 
iogians.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  for  him  to  abstain  from 
giving  such  a shock  to  their  understandings  as  might  break 
the  charm  which  it  was  his  object  to  throw  over  their  imag- 
inations. This  is  the  real  explanation  of  the  indistinctness 
and  inconsistency  with  which  he  has  often  been  reproached. 
Dr.  Johnson  acknowledges  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
that  the  spirit  should  be  clothed  w ith  material  forms.  “ But,” 
says  he,  ‘‘  the  poet  should  have  secured  the  consistency  of 
his  system  by  keeping  immateriality  out  of  sight,  and  seduc- 
ing the  reader  to  drop  it  from  his  thoughts.”  This  is  easily 
said ; but  what  if  Milton  could  not  seduce  his  readers  to 
drop  immateriality  from  their  thoughts  ? What  if  the  con- 
trary opinion  had  taken  so  fully  possession  of  the  minds  of 
men  as  to  leave  no  room  even  for  the  half  belief  which 
poetry  requires  ? Such  w^e  suspect  to  have  been  the  case. 
It  was  impossible  for  the  poet  to  adopt  altogether  the  mate- 
rial or  the  immaterial  system.  He  therefore  took  his  stand 
on  the  debatable  ground.  He  left  the  whole  in  ambiguity. 
He  has,  doubtless,  by  so  doing,  laid  himself  open  to  the 
charge  of  inconsistency.  But,  though  philosophically  in  the 
wrong,  we  cannot  but  believe  that  he  w^as  poetically  in  the 
right.  This  task,  which  almost  any  other  writer  would  have 
found  impracticable,  was  easy  to  him.  The  peculiar  art 
which  he  possessed  of  communicating  his  meaning  circuit- 
ously through  a long  succession  of  associated  ideas,  and  of 
intimating  more  than  he  expressed,  enabled  him  to  disguise 
those  incongruities  which  he  could  not  avoid. 

Poetry  which  relates  to  the  beings  of  another  world  ought 
to  be  at  once  mysterious  and  picturesque.  That  of  Milton 
is  so.  That  of  Dante  is  picturesque  indeed  beyond  any  that 
was  ever  written.  Its  effect  approaches  to  that  produced  by 
the  pencil  or  the  chisel.  But  it  is  picturesque  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  mystery.  This  is  a fault  on  the  right  side,  a fault  in- 
separable from  the  plan  of  Dante’s  poem,  which,  as  we  have 
already  observed,  rendered  the  utmost  accuracy  of  descrip- 
tion necessary.  Still  it  is  a fault.  The  supernatural  agents 
excite  an  interest ; but  it  is  not  the  interest  which  is  proper 
to  supernatural  agents.  We  feel  that  w^e  could  talk  to  the 
ghosts  and  daemons  wdthout  any  emotion  of  unearthly  aw^e. 
We  could,  like  Don  Juan,  ask  them  to  supper,  and  eat 
heartily  in  their  company,  Dante’s  angels  are  good  men 


166 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  avuitings. 


witli  Avings.  Ills  devils  are  spiteful  ugly  executioners.  His 
dead  men  arc  merely  living  men  in  strange  situations.  The 
scene  Avhicli  passes  between  the  ])Oct  and  Farinata  is  justly 
celebrated.  Still,  Farinata  in  the  burning  tomb  is  exactly 
Avhat  Farinata  would  liave  ])ccn  at  an  auto  da  fe.  Nothing 
can  be  more  touching  than  the  first  intervicAV  of  Dante  and 
Beatrice.  Yet  Avhat  is  it,  but  a lovely  Avoman  chiding,  with 
SAveet  austere  composure,  the  lover  for  avIiosc  affection  she 
is  grateful,  but  A\dAOse  vices  she  re])robates  ? The  feelings 
Avhich  give  the  passage  its  charm  would  suit  the  streets  of 
Florence  as  Avell  as  the  summit  of  the  Mount  of  Purgatory. 

The  spirits  of  Milton  are  unlike  those  of  almost  all  other 
Avriters.  His  fiends,  in  ])articular,  are  Avonderful  creations. 
They  are  not  metaphysical  abstractions.  They  are  not 
Avicked  men.  Tliey  are  not  ugly  beasts.  Tlicy  have  no 
horns,  no  tails,  none  of  the  fee-faw-fum  of  Tasso  and  Klop- 
stock.  They  have  just  enough  in  common  Avith  human 
nature  to  be  intelligible  to  human  beings.  Their  characters 
are,  like  their  forms,  marked  by  a certain  dim  resemblance 
to  those  of  men,  but  exaggerated  to  gigantic  dimensions, 
and  veiled  in  mysterious  gloom. 

Perhaps  the  gods  and  daemons  of  Hilschylus  may  best 
bear  a comparison  Avith  the  angels  and  devils  of  Milton. 
The  style  of  the  Athenian  had,  as  we  have  remarked,  some- 
thing of  the  Oriental  character ; and  the  same  peculiarity 
may  be  traced  in  his  mythology.  It  has  nothing  of  the 
amenity  and  elegance  Avhich  Ave  generally  find  in  the  super- 
stitions of  Greece.  All  is  rugged,  barbaric,  and  colossal. 
The  legends  of  ^schylus  seem  to  liarmonize  less  with  the 
fragrant  groves  and  graceful  porticoes  in  which  his  country- 
men paid  their  vows  to  the  God  of  Light  and  Goddess  of 
Desire,  than  Avith  those  huge  and  grotesque  labyrinths  of 
eternal  granite  in  Avhich  Egypt  enshrined  her  mystic  Osiris, 
or  in  which  Hindostan  still  boAvs  down  to  her  seven-headed 
idols.  His  favorite  gods  are  those  of  the  elder  generation, 
the  sons  of  heaven  and  earth,  compared  with  whom  Jupiter 
himself  was  a stripling  and  an  upstart,  the  gigantic  Titans, 
and  the  inexorable  Furies.  Foremost  among  his  creations 
of  this  class  stands  Prometheus,  half  fiend,  half  redeemer, 
the  friend  of  man,  the  sullen  and  implacable  enemy  of 
heaA^en.  Prometheus  bears  undoubtedly  a considerable  re- 
semblance to  the  Satan  of  Milton.  In  both  we  find  the 
same  imjLatience  of  control,  the  same  ferocity,  the  same  un- 
conquerable pride.  In  both  characters  also  are  mingled, 


MILTON. 


167 


though  m very  different  proportions,  some  kind  and  gener- 
ous feelings.  Prometheus,  however,  is  hardly  superhuman 
enough,  lie  talks  too  much  of  his  chains  and  his  uneasy 
posture  : he  is  rather  too  much  depressed  and  agitated.  Ilis 
resolution  seems  to  depend  on  the  knowledge  which  he  pos- 
sesses that  he  holds  the  fate  of  his  torturer  in  his  hands,  and 
that  the  hour  of  Ills  release  will  surely  come.  But  Satan 
is  a creature  of  another  sphere.  The  might  of  his  intellec- 
tual nature  is  victorious  over  the  extremity  of  pain.  Amidst 
agonies  Avhich  cannot  be  conceived  without  horror,  he  de- 
liberates, resolves,  and  even  exults.  Against  the  sword  ol 
Michael,  against  the  thunder  of  Jehovah,  against  the  flam- 
ing lake,  and  tlie  marl  burning  with  solid  Are,  against  the 
prospect  of  an  eternity  of  unintermitted  misery,  his  spirit 
bears  up  unbroken,  resting  on  its  own  innate  energies,  re- 
quiring no  support  from  anything  external,  nor  even  from 
hope  itself. 

To  return  for  a moment  to  the  parallel  wdiich  we  have 
been  attempting  to  draw  between  Milton  and  Dante,  we 
would  add  that  the  poetry  of  these  great  men  has  in  a con 
siderable  degree  taken  its  character  from  their  moral  quali- 
ties. They  are  not  egotists.  They  rarely  obtrude  their 
idiosyncrasies  on  their  readers.  They  have  nothing  in 
common  with  those  modern  beggars  for  fame,  who  extorts 
a pittance  from  the  compassion  of  the  inexperienced  by 
exposing  the  nakedness  and  sores  of  their  minds.  Yet  it 
Avould  be  diflicult  to  name  two  writers  whose  works  have 
been  more  completely,  though  undesignedly,  colored  by 
their  personal  feelings. 

The  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distinguished  by 
loftiness  of  spirit ; that  of  Dante  by  intensity  of  feeling.  In 
every  line  of  the  Divine  Comedy  we  discern  the  asperity 
which  is  produced  by  pride  struggling  with  misery.  There 
is  perhaps  no  work  in  the  world  so  deeply  and  uniformly 
eorrowful.  The  melancholy  of  Dante  was  no  fantastic  ca* 
])rice.  It  was  not,  as  far  as  at  this  distance  of  time  can  be 
judged,  the  effect  of  external  circumstances.  It  was  from 
within.  Neither  love  nor  glory,  neither  the  conflicts  of 
earth  nor  the  hope  of  heaven  could  dispel  it.  It  tui  ned 
every  consolation  and  every  pleasure  into  its  own  nature. 
It  resembled  that  noxious  Sardinian  soil  of  which  the  in- 
tense bitterness  is  said  to  have  been  perceptible  even  in  its 
honey.  His  mind  was,  in  the  noble  language  of  the  Hebrew 
poet,  “a  land  of  darkness,  as  darkness  itself,  and  where  the 


168 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  AVIUTINGB. 


light  was  as  darkness.”  The  gloom  of  Ids  characters  dis- 
colors all  the  ])assions  of  men,  and  all  the  face  of  nature^ 
and  tinges  with  its  own  livid  hue  the  dowers  of  Paradise 
and  the  glories  of  the  eternal  throne.  All  the  portraits  of 
1 im  are  singularly  characteristic.  No  person  can  look  on 
the  features,  noble  even  to  ruggedness,  the  dark  furrows  of 
the  cheek,  the  haggard  and  woful  stare  of  the  eye,  the  sullen 
and  contemptuous  curve  of  the  lip,  and  doubt  that  they  be- 
long to  a man  too  proud  and  too  sensitive  to  be  happy. 

Milton  was,  like  Dante,  a statesman  and  a lover ; and, 
like  Dante,  he  had  been  unfortunate  in  ambition  and  in 
love.  He  had  survived  his  health  and  his  sight,  the  com- 
forts of  his  home,  and  the  prosperity  of  his  party.  Of  the 
great  men  by  whom  he  had  been  distinguished  at  his  en- 
trance into  life,  some  had  been  taken  away  from  the  evil  to 
come ; some  had  carried  into  foreign  climates  their  uncon- 
querable hatred  of  opiiression  ; some  were  pining  in  dun- 
geons; and  some  had  poured  forth  their  blood  on  scaffolds. 
Venal  and  licentious  scribblers,  wdth  just  sufficient  talent  to 
clothe  the  thoughts  of  a pandar  in  the  style  of  a bellman, 
were  now  the  favorite  writers  of  the  Sovereign  and  of  the 
public.  It  was  a loathsome  herd,  which  could  be  compared 
to  nothing  so  fitly  as  to  the  rabble  of  Comus,  grotesque 
monsters,  half  bestial,  half  human,  dropping  with  wdne, 
bloated  with  gluttony,  and  reeling  in  obscene  dances. 
Amidst  these  that  fair  "Muse  was  placed,  like  the  chaste  lady 
of  the  Masque,  lofty,  spotless,  and  serene,  to  be  chattered 
at,  and  pointed  at,  and  grinned  at,  by  the  whole  rout  of 
Satyrs  and  Goblins.  If  ever  despondency  and  asperity 
could  be  excused  in  any  man,  they  might  have  been  excused 
in  Milton.  But  the  strength  of  his  mind  overcame  every 
calamity.  Neither  blindness,  nor  gout,  nor  age,  nor  penury, 
nor  domestic  afflictions,  nor  political  disappointments,  nor 
abuse,  nor  proscription,  nor  neglect,  had  power  to  disturb  his 
sedate  and  majestic  patience.  His  spirits  do  not  seem  to  have 
been  high,  but  they  were  singularly  equable.  His  temper 
w^as  serious,  perhaps  stern  ; but  it  was  a temper  which  no 
sufferings  could  render  sullen  or  fretful.  Such  as  it  was 
when,  on  the  eve  of  great  events,  he  returned  from  his 
travels,  in  the  prime  of  health  and  manly  beauty,  loaded 
with  literary  distinctions,  and  glowing  with  patriotic  hopes, 
such  it  continued  to  be  when,  after  having  experienced 
every  calamity  which  is  incident  to  our  nature,  old,  poor^ 
sightless  and  disgraced,  he  retired  to  his  hovel  to  die. 


MILTON. 


169 


Hence  it  was  that,  though  he  wrote  the  Paradise  Lost  at 
a time  of  life  when  images  of  beauty  and  tenderness  are  in 
general  beginning  to  fade,  even  from  those  minds  in  which 
they  have  not  been  effaced  by  anxiety  and  disappointment, 
lie  adorned  it  with  all  that  is  most  lovely  and  delightful  i» 
the  physical  and  in  the  moral  world.  Neither  Theocritus  nor 
Ariosto  had  a finer  or  a more  healthful  sense  of  the  pleasam 
ness  of  external  objects,  or  loved  better  to  luxuriate  amidst 
sunbeams  and  flowers,  the  songs  of  nightingales,  the  juici> 
of  summer  fruits,  and  the  coolness  of  shady  fountains.  Hu 
conception  of  love  unites  all  the  voluptuousness  of  th#< 
Ormntal  harem,  and  all  the  gallantry  of  the  chivalric  tourna 
meiit,  with  all  the  pure  and  quiet  affection  of  an  English 
fireside.  His  poetry  reminds  us  of  the  miracles  of  Alpine 
scenery.  Nooks  and  dells,  beautiful  as  fairy  land,  are  em- 
bosomed in  its  most  rugged  and  gigantic  elevations.  The 
roses  and  myrtles  bloom  unchilled  on  the  verge  of  the 
avalanche. 

Traces,  indeed,  of  the  peculiar  character  of  Milton  may 
be  found  in  all  his  works ; but  it  is  most  strongly  displayed 
in  the  Sonnets.  Those  remarkable  poems  have  been  under- 
valued Dy  critics  who  have  not  understood  their  nature. 
They  have  no  epigrammatic  point.  There  is  none  of  the 
ingenuity  of  Filicaja  in  the  thought,  none  of  the  hard  and 
brilliant  enamel  of  Petrarch  in  the  style.  They  are  simple 
but  majestic  records  of  the  feelings  of  the  poet ; as  little 
tricked  out  for  the  public  eye  as  his  diary  would  have  been. 
A victory,  an  expected  attack  upon  the  city,  a momentary 
fit  of  depression  or  exultation,  a jest  thrown  out  against 
one  of  his  books,  a dream  which  for  a short  time  restored 
to  him  that  beautiful  face  over  which  the  grave  had  closed 
for  ever,  led  him  to  musings,  which,  without  effort,  shaped 
themselves  into  verse.  The  unity  of  sentiment  and  severity 
of  style  which  characterize  these  little  pieces  remind  us  of 
the  Greek  Anthology,  or  perhaps  still  more  of  the  Collects 
of  the  English  Liturgy.  The  noble  poem  on  the  Massacres 
of  Piedmont  is  strictly  a Collect  in  verse. 

The  Sonnets  are  more  or  less  striking  according  as  the 
occasions  which  gave  birth  to  them  are  more  or  less  interest- 
ing. But  they  are,  almost  without  exception,  dignified  by  a 
sobriety  and  greatness  of  mind  to  which  we  know  not  wher« 
to  look  for  a parallel.  It  would,  indeed,  be  scarcely  safe  t< 
draw  any  decided  inferences  as  to  the  character  of  a writer 
from  passages  directly  egotistical  But  the  qualities  whicl 


170 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


we  have  ascribed  to  Milton,  though  ])erhaps  most  strongly 
marked  in  those  parts  of  liis  works  which  treat  of  his 
j)ersonal  feelings,  are  distinguishable  in  every  ])age,  and 
imj)art  to  all  his  writings,  prose  and  j)oetry,  English,  Latin, 
and  Italiaii,  a sti*ong  family  likeness. 

Ills  piOdic  conduct  was  sucli  as  was  to  be  expected  from 
a man  of  a spirit  so  high  and  of  an  intellect  so  ])Owerful. 
lie  lived  at  one  of  the  most  memorable  eras  in  the  liistory 
of  mankind,  at  the  very  crisis  of  the  great  conflict  between 
Ororaasdes  and  Arimanes,  liberty  and  despotism,  reason 
and  prejudice.  That  great  battle  was  fought  for  no  single 
generation,  for  no  single  land.  The  destinies  of  the  human 
race  were  staked  on  the  same  cast  with  the  freedom  of  the 
English  people.  Then  were  first  proclaimed  those  mighty 
ju'inciples  which  have  since  worked  their  way  into  the 
depths  of  the  American  forests,  which  have  roused  Greece 
from  the  slavery  and  degradation  of  two  thousand  years, 
and  which,  from  one^  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  have 
kindled  an  unquenchable  fire  in  the  hearts  of  the  oppressed, 
and  loosed  the  knees  of  the  opj)ressors  with  an  unwonted 
fear. 

Of  those  principles,  then  struggling  for  their  infant  exist- 
ence, Milton  was  the  most  devoted  and  eloquent  literary 
champion.  We  need  not  say  how  much  we  admire  his  public 
conduct.  But  we  cannot  disguise  from  ourselves  that  a 
large  portion  of  his  countrymen  still  think  it  unjustifiable. 
The  civil  war,  indeed,  has  been  more  discussed,  and  is  less 
understood,  than  any  event  in  English  history.  The  friends 
of  liberty  labored  under  the  disadvantage  of  Avhich  the 
lion  in  the  fable  complained  so  bitterly.  Though  they  were 
the  conquerors,  their  enemies  were  the  painters.  As  a body, 
the  Roundheads  had  done  their  utmost  to  decry  and  ruin 
literature ; and  literature  was  even  with  them,  as,  in  the 
long  run,  it  always  is  with  its  enemies.  The  best  book  on 
their  side  of  the  question  is  the  charming  narrative  of  Mrs, 
Hutchinson.  May’s  History  of  the  Parliament  is  good ; 
but  it  breaks  off  at  the  most  interesting  crisis  of  the  struggle. 
The  performance  of  Ludlow  is  foolish  and  violent ; and 
most  of  the  later  writers  who  have  espoused  the  same  cause, 
Oldmixon  for  instance,  and  Catherine  Macaulay,  have,  to  say 
the  least,  been  more  distinguished  by  zeal  than  either  by 
candor  or  by  skill.  On  the  other  side  are  the  most  author- 
itative and  the  most  po])ular  historical  works  in  our  lan- 
guage, that  of  Clarendon,  and  that  of  Hume.  The  fqrmet 


MILTON. 


171 


18  not  only  ably  written  and  full  of  valuable  information, 
but  liaH  also  an  air  of  dignity  and  sincerity  which  makes 
even  the  prejudices  and  errors  with  whicli  it  abounds  re- 
spectable. H«nie,  from  whose  fascinating  narrative  the  great 
mass  of  the  reading  public  are  still  contented  to  take  their 
opinions,  hated  religion  so  much  tliat  he  hated  liberty  for 
liaving  been  allied  with  religion,  and  has  pleaded  the  cause 
of  tyranny  with  the  dexterity  of  an  advocate  while  affecting 
the  impartiality  of  a judge. 

The  public  conduct  of  Milton  must  be  approved  or  con- 
demned according  as  the  resistance  of  the  people  to  Charles 
the  First  shall  appear  to  be  justifiable  or  criminal.  We  shall 
therefore  make  no  apology  for  dedicating  a few  pages  to 
the  discussion  of  that  interesting  and  most  important  ques- 
tion. We  shall  not  argue  it  on  general  grounds.  We  shall 
not  recur  to  those  primary  principles  from  which  the  claim 
of  any  government  to  the  obedience  of  its  subjects  is  to  be 
deduced.  We  are  entitled  to  that  vantage  ground  ; but  we 
will  relinquish  it.  We  are,  on  this  point,  so  confident  of 
superiority,  that  we  are  not  unwilling  to  imitate  the  osten- 
tatious generosity  of  those  ancient  knights,  who  vowed  to 
joust  without  helmet  or  shield  against  all  enemies,  and  to 
give  their  antagonists  the  advantage  of  sun  and  wind.  We 
will  take  the  naked  constitutional  question.  We  confidently 
affirm,  that  every  reason  which  can  be  urged  in  favor  of 
the  Eevolution  of  1688  may  be  urged  with  at  least  equal 
force  in  favor  of  what  is  called  the  Great  Eebellion. 

In  one  respect,  only,  we  think  can  the  warmest  admir- 
ers of  diaries  venture  to  say  that  he  was  a better  sovereign 
than  his  son.  He  was  not,  in  name  and  profession,  a 
Papist ; we  say  in  name  and  profession,  because  bolh 
Charles  himself  and  his  creature  Laud,  while  they  abjured 
the  innocent  badges  of  Popery,  retained  all  its  worst  vices, 
a complete  subjection  of  reason  to  authority,  a weak  prefer- 
ence of  form  to  substance,  a childish  passion  for  mummeries, 
an  idolatrous  veneration  for  the  priestly  character,  and, 
above  all,  a merciless  intolerance.  This,  however,  we  waive. 
We  will  concede  that  Charles  was  a good  Protestant , but 
we  say  that  his  Protestantism  does  not  make  the  slightest 
distinction  between  his  case  and  that  of  James. 

The  principles  of  the  Eevolution  have  often  been  grossly 
misrepresented,  and  never  more  than  in  the  course  of  the 
present  year.  There  is  a certain  class  of  men  who,  Avhile 
they  profess  to  hold  in  reverence  the  great  names  and  great 


172  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

actions  of  former  times,  never  look  at  tliem  for  any  other 
purpose  than  in  order  to  find  in  them  some  excuse  for  existing 
abuses.  In  every  venerable  j)recedent  they  pass  by  what  is 
essential,  and  take  only  what  is  accidental : they  keep  out 
of  sight  what  is  beneficial,  and  liold  up  to  public  imitation 
all  that  is  defective.  If,  in  any  part  of  any  great  example, 
there  be  any  thing  unsound,  these  flesh-flies  detect  it  with 
an  unerring  instinct,  and  dart  upon  it  with  a ravenous 
delight.  If  some  good  end  has  been  attained  in  spite  of 
them,  they  feel,  with  their  prototype,  that 

“ Their  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 

And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil." 

To  the  blessings  which  England  has  derived  from  the 
Revolution  these  people  are  utterly  insensible.  The  expul- 
sion of  a tyrant,  the  solemn  recognition  of  popular  rights, 
liberty,  security,  toleration,  all  go  for  nothing  with  them. 
One  sect  there  was,  which,  from  unfortunate  temporary 
causes,  it  w\as  thought  necessary  to  keep  under  close  restraint. 
One  ])art  of  the  empire  there  was  so  unhappily  circumstanced, 
that  at  that  time  its  misery  was  necessary  to  our  happiness, 
and  its  slavery  to  our  freedom.  These  are  the  parts  of 
the  Revolution  which  the  politicians  of  whom  we  speak,  love 
to  contemplate,  and  which  seem  to  them  not  indeed  to  vin- 
dicate, but  in  some  degree  to  palliate,  the  good  which  it  has 
produced.  Talk  to  them  of  Naples,  of  Spain,  or  of  South 
America.  They  stand  forth  zealots  for  the  doctrine  of 
Divine  Right  which  has  now  come  back  to  us,  like  a thief 
from  transportation,  under  the  alias  of  Legitimacy.  But 
mention  the  miseries  of  Ireland.  Then  William  is  a hero. 
Then  Somers  and  Shrewsbury  are  great  men.  Then  the 
Revolution  is  a glorious  era.  The  very  same  persons  who, 
in  this  country,  never  omit  an  opportunity  of  reviving  every 
wretched  Jacobite  slander  respecting  the  Whigs  of  that 
period,  have  no  sooner  crossed  St.  George’s  Channel,  than 
they  begin  to  All  their  bumpers  to  the  glorious  and  immortal 
memory.  They  may  truly  boast  that  they  look  not  at  men, 
but  at  measures.  So  that  evil  be  done,  they  care  not  who 
does  it ; the  arbitary  Charles,  or  the  liberal  William, 
Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  or  Frederic  the  Protestant.  On 
such  occasions  their  deadliest  opponents  may  reckon  upon 
their  candid  construction.  The  bold  assertions  of  these 
people  have  of  late  impressed  a large  portion  of  the  public 
with  an  opinion  that  James  the  Second  was  expelled  simply 


MILTOIT. 


173 


because  he  was  a Catliolic,  and  that  the  Revolution  was 
essentially  a Protestant  Revolution. 

But  this  certainly  was  not  the  case  ; nor  can  any  person 
who  has  acquired  more  knowledge  of  the  history  of  those 
times  thar  is  to  be  found  in  Goldsmith’s  Abridgment  believe 
that,  if  James  had  held  his  own  religious  opinions  without 
wishing  to  make  proselytes,  or  if,  wishing  even  to  make 
proselytes,  he  had  contented  himself  with  exerting  only  his 
constitutional  influence  for  that  purpose,  the  Prince  of 
Orange  would  ever  have  been  invited  over.  Our  ancestors, 
we  suppose,  knew  their  own  meaning;  and,  if  we  may  be- 
lieve them,  their  hostility  was  primarily  not  to  popery,  but 
to  tyranny.  They  did  not  drive  out  a tyrant  because  he 
was  a Catholic ; but  they  excluded  Catholics  from  the  crown, 
because  they  thought  them  likely  to  be  tyrants.  The  ground 
on  which  they,  in  their  famous  resolution,  declared  the  throne 
vacant,  was  this,  that  James  had  broken  the  fundamental 
laws  of  the  kingdom.”  Everyman,  therefore,  who  approves 
of  the  Revolution  of  1688  must  hold  that  the  breach  of 
fundamental  laws  on  the  part  of  the  sovereign  justifies 
resistance.  The  question,  then,  is  this:  Had  Charles  the 
First  broken  the  fundamental  laws  of  England  ? 

No  person  can  answer  in  the  negative,  unless  he  refuses 
credit,  not  merely  to  all  the  accusations  brought  against 
Charles  by  his  opponents,  but  to  the  narratives  of  the  warm- 
est Royalists,  and  to  the  confessions  of  tho  King  himself. 
If  there  be  any  truth  in  any  historian  of  any  party  who  has 
related  the  events  of  that  reign,  the  conduct  of  Charles,  from 
his  accession  to  the  meeting  of  the  Long  Parliament,  had 
been  a continued  course  of  oppression  and  treachery.  Let 
those  who  applaud  the  Revolution,  and  condemn  the  Rebel- 
lion, mention  one  act  of  James  the  Second  to  which  a par- 
allel is  not  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  his  father.  Let 
them  lay  their  fingers  on  a single  article  in  the  Declaration 
of  Right,  presented  by  the  two  Houses  to  William  and 
Mary,  which  Charles  is  not  acknowledged  to  have  violated. 
He  had,  according  to  the  testimony  of  his  own  friends, 
usurped  the  functions  of  the  legislature,  raised  taxes  with- 
out the  consent  of  parliament,  and  quartered  troops  on  the 
people  in  the  most  illegal  and  vexatious  manner.  Not  a 
single  session  of  parliament  had  passed  without  some  uncon- 
stitutional attack  on  the  freedom  of  debate  ; the  right  of 
petition  was  grossly  violated ; arbitrary  judgments,  exorbi- 
tant fines,  and  un^varranted  imprisonments,  were  grievances 


174  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  aviutings. 

of  daily  oeciirrenco.  If  tliese  tilings  do  not  justify  resist- 
ance, the  He  volution  was  treason  ; if  they  (lo,  the  Great 
Rebellion  was  laudable. 

Rut,  it  is  said,  why  not  adopt  milder  measures?  Why, 
after  the  King  liad  consented  to  so  many  reforms,  and  re- 
nounced so  many  oppressive  prerogatives,  did  the  parlia- 
ment continue  to  rise  in  their  demands  at  the  risk  of  provok- 
ing a civil  war?  The  ship-money  had  been  given  u]).  The 
Star  Chamber  had  been  abolished.  Provision  had  been 
made  for  the  frequent  convocation  and  secure  deliberation 
of  }>arliaments.  Why  not  pursue  an  end  confessedly  good 
by  peaceable  and  regular  means?  We  recur  again  to  the 
analogy  of  the  Revolution.  Wliy  Avas  James  driven  from 
the  throne  ? Why  was  he  not  retained  upon  conditions? 
He  too  had  offered  to  call  a free  parliament  and  to  submit 
U its  decision  all  the  matters  in  dispute.  Yet  Ave  are  in 
the  habit  of  praising  our  forefathers,  Avho  preferred  a revolu- 
tion, a disputed  succession,  a dynasty  of  strangers,  twenty 
years  of  foreign  and  intestine  Avar,  a standing  army,  and  a 
national  debt,  to  the  rule,  however  restricted,  of  a tried  and 
proved  tyrant.  The  Long  Parliament  acted  on  the  same 
principle  and  is  entitled  to  the  same  praise.  They  could 
not  trust  the  King.  He  had  no  doubt  passed  salutary 
laAvs ; but  Avhat  assurance  Avas  there  that  he  would  not 
break  them  ? He  had  renounced  oppressive  prerogatives  } 
but  AvliQre  Avas  the  security  that  he  Avould  not  resume  them  ? 
The  nation  had  to  deal  Avith  a man  whom  no  tie  could  bind, 
a man  Avho  made  and  broke  promises  with  equal  facility,  a 
man  Avhose  honor  had  been  a hundred  times  paAvned,  and 
never  redeemed. 

Here,  indeed,  the  Long  Parliament  stands  on  still  stronger 
ground  than  the  Convention  of  1688.  Ko  action  of  James 
can  be  compared  to  the  conduct  of  Charles  with  respect  to 
the  Petition  of  Right.  The  Lords  and  Commons  present 
him  Avith  a bill  in  Avhich  the  constitutional  limits  of  his 
poAver  are  marked  out.  He  hesitates ; he  evades  ; at  last 
he  bargains  to  give  his  assent  for  five  subsidies.  The  bill 
receives  his  solemn  assent;  the  subsidies  are  voted;  but  no 
sooner  is  the  tyrant  relieved,  than  he  returns  at  once  to  all 
the  arbitrary  measures  which  he  had  bound  himself  to  aban- 
don, and  violates  all  the  clauses  of  the  very  Act  which  he 
had  been  paid  to  pass. 

For  more  than  ten  years  the  people  had  seen  the  rights 
which  Avere  theirs  by  a double  claim,  by  immemorial  inheri- 


MILTON. 


175 


taiico  and  by  recent  purchase,  infringed  by  the  perfidious 
king  who  had  recognized  them.  At  length  circumstances 
compelled  Charles  to  summon  another  parliament : another 
chance  was  given  to  our  fathers  : were  they  to  throw  it  away 
as  they  had  thrown  away  the  former?  Were  they  again  to 
be  cozened  by  le  lloi  le  veut?  Were  they  again  to  advance 
their  money  on  pledges  which  had  been  forfeited  over  and 
over  again?  Were  they  to  lay  a second  Petition  of  Riglit 
at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  to  grant  another  lavish  aid  ir. 
exchange  for  another  unmeaning  ceremony,  and  then  to 
take  their  departure,  till,  after  ten  years  more  of  fraud  aiul 
oppression,  their  prince  should  again  require  a supply,  and 
again  repay  it  with  a perjury  ? They  were  compelled  to 
choose  whether  they  would  trust  a tyrant  or  conquer  him. 
We  tliink  that  they  chose  wisely  and  nobly. 

The  advocates  of  Charles,  like  the  advocates  of  other 
malefactors  against  whom  overwhelming  evidence  is  pro- 
duced, generally  decline  all  controversy  about  the  facts,  and 
content  themselves  witli  calling  testimony  to  character.  He 
had  so  many  private  virtues  ! And  had  James  the  Second 
no  private  virtues?  Was  Oliver  Cromwell,  his  bitterest 
enemies  themselves  being  j udges,  destitute  of  private  virtues  ? 
And  what,  after  all,  are  the  virtues  ascribed  to  Charles  ? A 
religious  zeal,  not  more  sincere  than  that  of  his  son,  and 
fully  as  weak  and  narrow-minded,  and  a few  of  the  ordinary 
household  decencies  Avhich  half  the  tombstones  in  England 
claim  for  those  who  lie  beneath  them.  A good  father  ! A 
good  husband  ! Ample  apologies  indeed  for  fifteen  years  of 
persecution,  tyranny  and  falseliood ! 

We  charge  him  with  having  broken  his  coronation  oath  ; 
and  we  are  told  that  he  kept  his  marriage  vow!  We' ac- 
cuse him  of  having  given  up  his  people  to  the  mer<^iless  in- 
flictions of  the  most  hot-headed  and  hard-hesTXecl  of  pre- 
lates ; and  the  defence  is,  that  he  took  hU  nttle  son  on  his 
knee  and  kissed  him  ! We  ccn^’^'r^;  nini  for  having  violated 
the  articles  of  the  Petition?,  oi  Right,  after  having,  for  good 
and  valuable  consideration,  promised  to  observe  them  ; and 
we  are  inW'’^'r-l  that  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  prayers  at 
six  o’clocK  in  the  morning!  It  is  to  such  considerations  as 
these,  together  wuth  his  Vandyke  dress,  his  handsome  face, 
oud  his  peaked  beard,  that  he  owes,  we  verily  believe,  most 
"his  popularity  with  the  present  generation. 

For  ourselves,  we  own  that  we  do  not  understand  the 
common  phrase,  a good  man,  but  a bad  king.  We  can  m 


\i6  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  mmutings. 

easily  conceive  a good  man  and  an  unnatural  father,  or  a 
good  man  and  a treacherous  friend.  We  cannot,  in  estima* 
ting  the  character  of  an  individual,  leave  out  of  our  consid- 
eration his  conduct  in  the  most  important  of  all  human 
relations ; and  if  in  that  relation  we  hnd  him  to  have  been 
selfish,  cruel,  and  deceitful,  we  shall  take  the  liberty  to  call 
him  a bad  man,  in  spite  of  all  his  temperance  at  table,  and 
all  his  regularity  at  chapel. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  adding  a few  words  respecting 
a topic  on  which  the  defenders  of  Charles  are  fond  of  dwell 
ing.  If,  they  say,  he  governed  his  people  ill,  he  at  least 
governed  them  after  the  example  of  his  predecessors.  If  he 
violated  their  privileges,  it  was  because  those  privileges  had 
not  been  accurately  defined.  'No  act  of  oppression  has  ever 
been  imputed  to  him  which  has  not  a parallel  in  the  annals 
of  the  Tudors.  This  point  Hume  has  labored,  with  an  art 
which  is  as  discreditable  in  a historical  work  as  it  would  be 
admirable  in  a forensic  address.  The  answer  is  short,  clear, 
and  decisive.  Charles  had  assented  to  the  Petition  of  Right. 
He  had  renounced  the  oppressive  powers  said  to  have  been 
exercised  by  his  predecessors,  and  he  had  renounced  them 
for  money.  He  was  not  entitled  to  set  up  his  antiquated 
claims  against  his  own  recent  release. 

These  arguments  are  so  obvious,  that  it  may  seem  super- 
fluous to  dwell  upon  them.  But  those  who  have  observed 
how  much  the  events  of  that  time  are  misrepresented  and 
misunderstood  will  not  blame  us  for  stating  the  case  simply. 
It  is  a case  of  which  the  simplest  statement  is  the  strongest. 

The  enemies  of  the  Parliament,  indeed,  rarely  choose  to 
take  issue  on  the  great  points  of  the  question.  They  ccl- 
tent  themselves  with  exposing  some  of  the  crimes  and  follies 
to  which  public  commotions  necessarily  give  birth.  They 
bewail  the  unmerited  fate  of  Strafford.  They  execrate  the 
lawless  violence  of  the  army.  They  laugh  at  the  Scriptural 
names  of  the  preachers.  Major-generals  fleecing  their  dis- 
tricts ; soldiers  revelling  on  the  spoils  of  a ruined  peasan- 
try ; upstartSj  enriched  by  the  public  plunder  taking  posses- 
sion of  the  hospitable  firesides  and  hereditary  trees  of  the 
old  gentry  ; boys  smashing  the  beautiful  windows  of  cathe- 
drals; Quakers  riding  naked  through  the  market-place; 
Pifth-moriarchy  men  shouting  for  King  Jesus;  agitators 
lecturing  from  the  tops  of  tubs  on  the  fate  of  Agag ; all 
these,  they  tell  us,  were  the  offspring  of  the  Great  Rebellion* 
Be  it  so*  We  are  not  careful  to  aaswcr  in  this  matter^ 


MILTON. 


177 


These  charges,  were  tliey  infinitely  more  important,  would 
not  alter  our  opinion  of  an  event  which  alone  has  made  us 
to  differ  from  the  slaves  who  crouch  beneath  despotic  scep- 
tres. Many  evils,  no  doubt,  were  produced  by  the  civil 
war.  They  were  the  price  of  our  liberty.  Has  the  acquisi- 
tion been  worth  the  sacrifice  ? It  is  the  nature  of  the  Devil 
of  tyranny  to  tear  and  rend  the  body  which  he  leaves.  Are 
the  miseries  of  continued  possession  less  horrible  than  the 
struggles  of  the  tremendous  exorcism  ? 

If  it  were  possible  that  a people  brought  up  under  an  in- 
tolerant and  arbitrary  system  could  subvert  that  system 
without  acts  of  cruelty  and  folly,  half  the  objections  to  des- 
potic power  would  be  removed.  We  should,  in  that  case, 
be  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  it  at  least  produces  no 
pernicious  effects  on  the  intellectual  and  moral  character  of 
a nation.  We  deplore  the  outrages  which  accompany  revo- 
lutions. But  the  more  violent  the  outrages,  the  more  assured 
we  feel  that  a revolution  was  necessary.  The  violence  of 
those  outrages  will  always  be  proportioned  to  the  ferocity 
and  ignorance  of  the  people ; and  the  ferocity  and  ignorance 
of  the  people  will  be  proportioned  to  the  oppression  and 
degradation  under  which  they  have  been  accustomed  to  live. 
Thus  it  was  in  our  civil  war.  The  heads  of  the  church  and 
state  reaped  only  that  which  they  had  sown.  The  govern- 
ment had  prohibited  free  discussion  : it  had  done  its  best  to 
keep  the  people  unacquainted  with  their  duties  and  their 
rights.  The  retribution  was  just  and  natural.  If  our  rulers 
suffered  from  popular  ignorance,  it  was  because  they  had 
themselves  taken  away  the  key  of  knowledge.  If  they  were 
assailed  with  blind  fury,  it  was  because  they  had  exacted  an 
equally  blind  submission. 

It  is  the  character  of  such  revolutions  that  we  always 
see  the  worst  of  them  at  first.  Till  men  have  been  some 
time  free,  they  know  not  how  to  use  their  freedom.  The 
natives  of  wine  countries  are  generally  sober.  In  climates 
where  wine  is  a rarity  intemperance  abounds.  A newly 
liberated  people  may  be  compared  to  a northern  army  en- 
camped on  the  Rhine  or  the  Xeres.  It  is  said  that,  when 
soldiers  in  such  a situation  first  find  themselves  able  to  in- 
dulge without  restraint  in  such  a rare  and  expensive  luxury, 
nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  intoxication.  Soon,  however, 
})leiity  teaches  discretion ; and,  after  wine  has  been  for  a 
few  months  their  daily  tare,  tliey  become  more  temperate 
than  they  had  ever  been  in  their  own  country*  In  the  same 


178  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

manner,  tlie  final  and  permanent  fruits  of  liberty  are  wis- 
dom, moderation,  and  mercy.  Its  immediate  effects  are  of- 
ten atrocious  crimes,  conflicting  errors,  skepticism  on  points 
the  most  clear,  dogmatism  on  ])oints  the  m<'st  mysterious. 
It  is  just  at  this  crisis  tliat  its  enemies  love  to  exhibit  it 
They  pull  down  the  scaffolding  from  the  half-finished  edifice  : 
they  point  to  the  flying  dust,  the  falling  bricks,  the  comfortless 
rooms,  the  frightful  irregularity  of  the  whole  appearance ; 
and  then  ask  in  scorn  wliere  tlie  promised  splendor  an<l 
comfort  is  to  be  found.  If  such  miserable  sophisms  were  to 
prevail  there  would  never  be  a good  house  or  a good  govern- 
ment in  the  world. 

• Ariosto  tells  a pretty  story  of  a fairy,  who,  by  some 
mysterious  law  of  her  nature,  was  condemned  to  appear  at 
certain  seasons  in  the  form  of  a foul  and  poisonous  snake. 
Those  who  injured  her  during  the  period  of  her  disguise 
were  for  ever  excluded  from  participation  in  the  blessings 
which  she  bestowed.  But  to  those  who,  in  spite  of  her 
loathsome  aspect,  pitied  and  protected  her,  she  afterwards 
revealed  herself  in  the  beautiful  and  celestial  form  which 
was  natural  to  her,  accompanied  their  steps,  granted  all 
their  wishes,  filled  their  houses  with  wealth,  made  them 
happy  in  love  and  victorious  in  war.  Such  a sj)irit  is  Lib- 
erty. At  times  she  takes  the  form  of  a hateful  reptile.  She 
grovels,  she  hisses,  she  stings.  But  woe  to  those  who  in 
disgust  shall  venture  to  crush  her ! And  happy  are  those 
who,  having  dared  to  receive  her  in  her  degraded  and  fright- 
ful shape,  shall  at  length  be  rewarded  by  her  in  the  time  of 
her  beauty  and  her  glory ! 

There  is  only  one  cure  for  the  evils  which  newly  ac- 
quired freedom  produces ; and  that  cure  is  freedom.  When 
a prisoner  first  leaves  his  cell  he  cannot  bear  the  light  of 
day:  he  is  unable  to  discriminate  colors,  or  recognize  faces. 
But  the  remedy  is  not  to  remand  him  into  his  dungeon, 
but  to  accustom  him  to  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The  blaze  of 
truth  and  liberty  may  at  first  dazzle  and  bewilder  nations 
which  have  become  half  blind  in  the  house  of  bondage. 
But  let  them  gaze  on,  and  they  will  soon  be  able  to  bear  it. 
In  a few  years  men  learn  to  reason.  The  extreme  violence 
of  opinions  subsides.  Hostile  theories  correct  each  other. 
The  scattered  elements  of  truth  cease  to  contend,  and  begin 
to  coalesce.  And  at  length  a system  of  justice  and  order  is 
educed  out  of  the  chaos. 

Many  pouticians  of  our  time  are  in  th©  habit  of  laying  it 


MILTON. 


179 


down  as  a self-evident  proposition,  that  no  people  ought  to 
be  free  till  they  are  lit  to  use  their  freedom.  The  maxim  is 
worthy  of  the  fool  in  the  old  story  who  resolved  not  to  go 
into  the  water  till  he  had  learnt  to  swim.  If  men  are  to 
wait  for  liberty  till  they  become  wise  and  good  in  slavery, 
they  may  indeed  wait  for  ever. 

Therefore  it  is  that  we  decidedly  approve  of  the  conduct 
of  Milton  and  the  other  wise  and  good  men  who,  in  spite  of 
much  that  was  ridiculous  and  hateful  in  the  conduct  of  their 
associates,  stood  hrmly  by  the  cause  of  Public  Liberty.  We 
are  not  aware  tliat  the  poet  has  been  charged  with  personal 
participation  in  any  of  the  blarneable  excesses  of  that  time. 
The  favorite  topic  of  his  enemies  is  the  line  of  conduct 
which  he  pursued  with  regard  to  the  execution  of  the  King. 
Of  that  celebrated  proceeding  we  by  no  means  approve. 
Still  we  must  say,  in  justice  to  the  many  eminent  persons 
who  concurred  in  it,  and  in  justice  more  particularly  to  the 
eminent  person  who  defended  it,  that  nothing  can  be  more 
absurd  than  the  imputations  which,  for  the  last  hundred  and 
sixty  years,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  cast  upon  the  Regi- 
cides. We  have,  throughout,  abstained  from  appealing  to 
first  principles.  We  wull  not  appeal  to  them  now.  We 
recur  again  to  the  parallel  case  of  the  Revolution.  What 
essential  distinction  can  be  drawn  between  the  execution  of 
the  father  and  the  deposition  of  the  son  ? What  constitu- 
tional maxim  is  there  which  applies  to  the  former  and  not 
to  the  latter?  The  King  can  do  no  wrong.  If  so,  James 
was  as  innocent  as  Charles  could  have  been.  The  minister 
only  ought  to  be  responsible  for  the  acts  of  the  Sovereign. 
If  so,  why  not  impeach  Jefferies  and  retain  James?  The 
person  of  a King  is  sacred.  Was  the  person  of  James  con- 
sidered sacred  at  the  Boyne?  To  discharge  cannon  against 
an  army  in  which  a King  is  known  to  be  posted  is  to  ap- 
proach pretty  near  to  regicide.  Charles,  too,  it  should  al- 
ways be  remember/3d,  was  put  to  death  by  men  who  had 
been  exasperated  by  the  hostilities  of  several  years,  and  who 
had  never  been  bound  to  him  by  any  other  tie  than  that 
which  was  common  to  them  with  all  their  fellow-citizens. 
Those  who  drove  James  from  his  throne,  who  seduced  his 
army,  who  alienated  his  friends,  who  first  imprisoned  him 
in  his  palace,  and  then  turned  him  out  of  it,  who  broke  in 
upon  his  very  slumbers  by  imperious  messages,  who  pursued 
him  with  fire  and  sword  from  one  part  of  the  empire  to  an- 
other, who  hanged,  drew,  and  quartered  his  adherents,  and 


180  Macaulay’s  misclllaXeous  %vihtings. 

attainted  liis  innocent  lieir,  were  liis  iiej)liew  and  Ills  two 
daughters.  Wlien  we  rdlect  on  all  these  things,  w e are  at 
a loss  to  conceive  lio\v  the  same  ]>ersons  who,  on  the  fifth  of 
November,  thank  God  for  wonderfully  conducting  his  ser- 
vant William,  and  for  making  all  opposition  fall  before  him 
Tintil  he  became  our  King  and  Governor,  can,  on  the  thir- 
tieth of  January,  contrive  to  be  afraid  that  the  blood  of  tho 
Royal  Martyr  may  be  visited  on  themselves  and  their  chil- 
dren. 

We  disapprove,  w^e  repeat,  of  the  execution  of  Charles; 
not  because  the  constitution  exempts  the  King  from  respon- 
sibility, for  we  know  that  all  such  maxims,  how^ever  excel- 
lent, have  their  exceptions ; nor  because  w e feel  any  pecu- 
liar interest  in  his  character,  for  we  think  that  his  sentence 
describes  him  wdth  perfect  justice  as  “ a tyrant,  a traitor,  a 
murderer,  and  a public  enemy ; ” but  because  w^e  are  con- 
vinced that  the  measure  was  most  injurious  to  the  cause  of 
freedom.  He  whom  it  removed  was  a captive  and  a hostage  : 
his  heir,  to  w hom  the  allegiance  of  every  Royalist  was  instant- 
ly transferred,  was  at  large.  The  Presbyterians  could  never 
have  been  perfectly  reconciled  to  the  father : they  had  no 
such  rooted  enmity  to  the  son.  The  great  body  of  the  peo- 
ple, also,  contemplated  that  proceeding  with  feelings  w^hich, 
however  unreasonable,  no  government  could  safely  venture 
to  outrage. 

But  though  we  think  the  conduct  of  the  Regicides  blame- 
able,  that  of  Milton  appears  to  us  in  a v^ery  different  light. 
The  deed  was  done.  It  could  not  be  undone.  The  evil  w^as 
incurred ; and  the  object  was  to  render  it  as  small  as  possible. 
We  censure  the  chiefs  of  the  army  for  not  yielding  to  the 
popular  opinion ; but  we  cannot  censure  Milton  for  wishing 
to  change  that  opinion.  The  very  feeling  which  would  have 
restrained  us  from  committing  the  act  w ould  have  led  us, 
after  it  had  been  committed,  to  defend  it  against  the  ravings 
dI  servility  and  superstition.  For  the  sake  of  public  liberty, 
we  wish  that  the  thing  had  not  been  done,  while  the  people 
disapproved  of  it.  But,  for  the  sake  of  public  liberty,  we 
should  also  have  wished  the  people  to  approve  of  it  w^hen  it 
was  done.  If  any  thing  more  were  w’^anting  to  the  justifica- 
tion of  Milton,  the  book  of  Salmasius  w^ould  furnish  it.  That 
miserable  performance  is  now  with  justice  considered  only 
as  a beacon  to  word-catchers,  w ho  wish  to  become  statesmen. 
The  celebrity  of  the  man  w ho  refuted  it,  the  “^neae  magni 
dextra,”  gives  it  all  its  fame  w ith  the  present  generation. 


MILTOIf. 


181 


In  that  age  tlie  state  of  things  was  different.  It  was  not 
then  fully  understood  how  vast  an  interval  separates  the 
mere  classical  scholar  from  the  political  philosopher.  Nor 
can  it  be  doubted  that  a treatise  which,  bearing  the  name  of 
so  eminent  a critic,  attacked  the  fundamental  principles  of 
all  free  governments,  must,  if  suffered  to  remain  unan- 
swered, have  produced  a most  pernicious  effect  on  the  pul> 
lie  mind. 

We  wish  to  add  a few  words  relative  to  another  subject, 
on  which  the  enemies  of  Milton  delight  to  dwell,  his  con- 
duct during  the  administration  of  the  Protector.  That  an 
enthusiastic  votary  of  liberty  should  accept  office  under  a 
military  usurper  seems,  no  doubt,  at  first  sight,  extraordi- 
nary. But  all  the  circumstances  in  which  the  country  was 
then  placed  were  extraordinary.  The  ambition  of  Oliver 
V,  as  of  no  vulgar  kind.  He  never  seems  to  have  coveted 
despotic  power.  He  at  first  fought  sincerely  and  manfully 
for  the  Parliament,  and  never  deserted  it,  till  it  had  deserted 
its  duty.  If  he  dissolved  it  by  force,  it  was  not  till  he  found 
that  the  few  members  who  remained  after  so  many  deaths, 
secessions,  and  expulsions,  were  desirous  to  appropriate  to 
themselves  a power  which  they  held  only  in  trust,  and  to  in- 
flict upon  England  the  curse  of  a Venetian  oligarchy.  But 
even  when  thus  placed  by  violence  at  the  head  of  affairs,  he 
did  not  assume  unlimited  power.  He  gave  the  country  a 
constitution  far  more  perfect  than  any  which  had  at  that 
time  been  known  in  the  world.  He  reformed  the  represen- 
tative system  in  a manner  which  has  extorted  praise  even 
from  Lord  Clarendon.  For  himself  he  demanded  indeed  the 
first  place  in  the  commonwealth  ; but  with  powers  scarcely 
so  great  as  those  of  a Dutch  stadtholder,  or  an  American 
president.  He  gave  the  Parliament  a voice  in  the  appoint- 
ment of  ministers,  and  left  to  it  the  whole  legislative  author- 
ity, not  oven  reserving  to  himself  a veto  on  its  enactments  ; 
and  he  did  not  require  that  the  chief  magistracy  should  bo 
hereditary  in  his  family.  Thus  far,  Ave  think,  if  the  circum- 
stances of  the  time  and  the  opportunities  which  he  had  of 
aggrandizing  himself  be  fairly  considered,  he  Avill  not  lose 
by  comparison  with  Washington  or  Bolivar.  Had  his  mod- 
eration been  met  with  corresponding  moderation,  there  is 
no  reason  to  think  that  he  would  have  overstepped  the  line 
whi(*h  he  liad  traced  for  himself.  But  Avhen  he  found  that 
his  parliaments  questioned  tlie  authority  under  Avhicli  they 
met,  and  that  he  Avas  in  danger  of  being  deprived  of  the 


182 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


restricted  power  wliicli  was  absolutely  necessary  to  his  per- 
sonal safety,  then,  it  must  he  acknowledged,  he  adopted  a 
more  arbitrary  j)olicy. 

Yet,  though  we  believe  that  the  intentions  of  Cromwell 
were  at  first  honest,  though  we  believe  that  he  was  driven 
from  the  noble  course  which  he  had  marked  out  for  himself 
by  the  almost  irresistible  force  of  circumstances,  though  we 
admire,  in  common  with  all  men  oi  all  parties,  the  ability  and 
energy  of  his  splendid  administration,  we  are  not  pleading  for 
arbitrary  and  lawless  power,  even  in  his  hands.  We  know 
that  a good  constitution  is  infinitely  better  than  the  best 
despot.  But  we  suspect,  that  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak 
the  violance  of  religious  and  political  enmities  rendered  a 
stable  and  happy  settlement  next  to  impossible.  The  choice 
lay,  not  between  Cromwell  and  liberty,  but  between  Crom- 
well and  the  Stuarts.  That  Milton  chose  well,  no  man 
can  doubt  who  fairly  compares  the  events  of  the  protector- 
ate with  those  of  the  thirty  years  which  succeeded  it,  the 
darkest  and  most  disgraceful  in  the  English  annals.  Crom- 
well was  evidently  laying,  though  in  an  irregular  manner, 
the  foundations  of  an  admirable  system.  Never  before  had 
religious  liberty  and  the  freedom  of  discussion  been  enjoyed 
in  a greater  degree.  Never  had  the  national  honor  been 
better  upheld  abroad,  or  the  seat  of  justice  better  filled  at 
home.  And  it  was  rarely  that  any  opposition  which  stopped 
short  of  open  rebellion  provoked  tfie  resentment  of  the 
liberal  and  magnanimous  usurper.  The  institutions  which 
lie  had  established,  as  set  down  in  the  Instrument  of  Gov- 
ernment, and  the  Ilumble  Petition  and  Advice,  were  excel- 
lent. Ilis  practice,  it  is  true,  too  often  departed  from  the 
theory  of  these  institutions.  But,  had  he  lived  a few  years 
longer,  it  is  probable  that  his  institutions  would  have  sur- 
vived him,  and  that  his  arbitrary  practice  would  have  died 
with  him.  His  power  had  not  been  consecrated  by  ancient 
|)i  ejudices.  It  was  upheld  only  by  his  great  personal  quali- 
lies.  Little,  therefore,  was  to  be  dreaded  from  a second 
j)rotector,  unless  he  was  also  a second  Oliver  Cromwell. 
The  events  ivhich  followed  his  decease  are  the  most  com- 
plete vindication  of  those  who  exerted  themselves  to  uphold 
his  authority.  Ilis  death  dissolved  the  whole  frame  of 
society.  The  army  rose  against  the  parliament,  the  different 
corps  of  the  army  against  each  other.  Sect  raved  against 
sect.  Party  plotted  against  party.  The  Presbyterians,  in 
their  eagerness  to  be  revenged  on  the  Independents,  sacri- 


MILTON. 


183 


deed  their  own  liberty,  and  deserted  all  their  old  principles. 
Without  casting  one  glance  on  the  past,  or  requiring  one 
stipulation  for  the  future,  tliey  threw  down  their  freedom 
at  the  feet  of  the  most  frivolous  and  heartless  of  tyrants. 

Then  came  those  days,  never  to  bo  recalled  without  a 
blush,  the  days  of  servitude  without  loyalty  and  sensuality 
without  love,  of  dwarfish  talents  and  gigantic  vices,  the 
paradise  of  cold  hearts  and  narrow  minds,  the  golde-n  age 
of  the  coward,  the  bigot,  and  the  slave.  The  King  crii  ged 
to  his  rival  that  he  might  trample  on  his  people,  sank  into  a 
viceroy  of  France,  and  pocketed,  with  complacent  infamy, 
her  degrading  insults,  and  her  more  degrading  gold.  The 
caresses  of  harlots,  and  the  jests  of  buff^oons,  regidated  the 
policy  of  the  state.  The  government  had  just  ability  enough 
to  deceive,  and  just  religion  enough  to  persecute.  The  prin- 
ciples of  liberty  were  the  scoff  of  every  grinning  courtier, 
and  the  Anathema  Maranatha  of  every  fawning  dean.  In 
every  high  place,  worship  was  paid  to  Charles  and  James, 
Belial  and  Moloch  ; and  England  propitiated  those  obscene 
and  cruel  idols  with  the  blood  of  her  best  and  bravest  children. 
Crime  succeeded  to  crime,  and  disgrace  to  disgrace,  till  the 
race  accursed  of  God  and  man  was  a second  time  driven 
forth,  to  w’ander  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  to  be  a by- 
word and  a shaking  of  the  head  to  the  nations. 

Most  of  the  remarks  AvLicli  we  have  hitherto  made  on 
the  public  character  of  Milton,  apply  to  him  only  as  one  of 
a large  body.  We  shall  proceed  to  notice  some  of  the  pe- 
culiarities which  distinguished  him  from  his  contemporaries. 
And,  for  that  purpose,  it  is  necessary  to  take  a short  survey 
of  the  parties  into  which  the  political  world  was  at  tliat  time 
divided.  W e must  premise,  that  our  observations  are  in- 
tended to  apply  only  to  those  who  adhered,  from  a sincere 
preference,  to  one  or  to  the  other  side.  In  days  of  public 
commotion,  every  faction,  like  an  Oriental  army,  is  attended 
by  a crowd  of  camp-followers,  an  useless  and  heartless  rabble, 
who  prowl  round  its  line  of  march  in  the  hope  of  picking  up 
something  under  its  protection,  but  desert  it  in  the  day  of 
battle,  and  often  join  to  exterminate  it  after  a defeat.  Eng^ 
land,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  treating,  abounded  with 
fickle  and  selfish  politicians,  who  transferred  their  support 
to  every  government  as  it  rose,  who  kissed  the  hand  of  the 
King  in  1640,  and  spat  in  his  face  in  1649,  who  shouted  with 
equal  glee  when  Cromwell  was  inaugurated  in  Westminster 
Hall,  and  when  he  waja  dug  up  to  be  hanged  at  Tyburn,  who 


184 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


dined  on  calves’  heads,  or  stuck  up  oak-branches,  as  circum- 
stances altered,  without  the  slightest  sliaine  or  rej)ugnance. 
These  we  leave  out  of  the  account.  We  take  our  estimate 
of  parties  from  those  who  really  deserved  to  be  called  par- 
tisans. 

We  would  speak  first  of  the  Puritans,  the  most  remark- 
able body  of  men,  perhaps,  which  the  world  has  ever  pro- 
duced. The  odious  and  ridiculous  parts  of  their  character 
lie  on  the  surface.  lie  that  runs  may  read  them  ; nor  have 
there  been  wanting  attentive  and  malicious  observers  to 
point  them  out.  For  many  years  after  the  Restoration, 
they  were  the  theme  of  unmeasured  invective  and  derision. 
They  were  exposed  to  the  utmost  licentiousness  of  the  press 
and  of  the  stage,  at  the  time  when  the  press  and  the  stage 
were  most  licentious.  They  were  not  men  of  letters  ; they 
were  as  a body,  unpopular ; they  could  not  defend  them- 
selves ; and  the  public  would  not  take  them  under  its  pro- 
tection. They  were  therefore  abandoned,  without  reserve, 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  satirists  and  dramatists.  The 
ostentatious  simplicity  of  their  dress,  their  sour  aspect, 
their  nasal  twang,  their  stiff  posture,  their  long  graces, 
their  Hebrew  names,  the  Scriptural  phrases  which  they 
introduced  on  every  occasion,  their  contempt  of  human 
learning,  their  detestation  of  polite  amusements,  w^ere  in- 
deed fair  game  for  the  laughers.  But  it  is  not  from  the 
laughers  alone  that  the  philosophy  of  history  is  to  be  learnt. 
And  he  who  approaches  this  subject  should  carefully  guard 
against  the  influence  of  that  potent  ridicule  which  has  already 
misled  so  many  excellent  writers. 

“ Ecco  il  fonte  del  riso,  ed  ecco  il  rio 
Che  mortali  perigli  in  se  contiene : 

Hor  qui  tener  a fren  nostro  desio, 

Ed  esser  cauti  raolto  a noi  conviene.*' 

Those  who  roused  the  people  to  resistance,  who  directed 
their  measures  through  a long  series  of  eventful  years,  who 
formed,  out  of  the  most  unpromising  materials,  the  finest 
army  that  Europe  had  ever  seen,  who  trampled  down  King, 
Church,  and  Aristocracy,  who,  in  the  short  intervals  of  do- 
mestic sedition  and  rebellion,  made  the  name  of  England 
terrible  to  every  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  were  no 
vulgar  fanatics.  Most  of  their  absurdities  were  mere  external 
badges,  like  the  signs  of  freemasonry,  or  the  dresses  of  friars. 
We  regret  that  these  badges  were  not  more  attractive.  We 
regret  that  a body  to  whose  courage  au4  talents  mankind  has 


MILTON. 


185 


owed  inestimable  obligations  had  not  the  lofty  elegance  which 
distinguished  some  of  tlie  adherents  of  Charles  the  First,  or 
the  easy  good-breeding  for  which  the  court  of  Charles  the 
Second  was  celebrated.  But,  if  Ave  must  make  our  choice, 
we  shall,  like  Bassanio  in  the  play,  turn  from  the  specious 
caskets  which  contain  only  the  Death’s  head  and  the  Fool’s 
head,  and  fix  on  the  plain  leaden  chest  which  conceals  the 
treasure. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a 
peculiar  character  from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior 
beings  and  eternal  interests.  Not  content  Avdth  acknowl- 
edging, in  general  terms,  an  overruling  Providence,  they 
habitually  ascribed  every  event  to  the  will  of  the  Great  Be- 
ing, for  whose  poAver  nothing  Avas  too  vast,  for  whose  in- 
spection nothing  Avas  too  minute.  To  knoAV  him,  to  serve 
him,  to  enjoy  him,  Avas  with  them  the  great  end  of  existence. 
They  rejected  Avith  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage  which 
other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul. 
Instead  of  catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through 
an  obscuring  veil,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full  on  his  intoler- 
able brightness,  and  to  commune  Avith  him  face  to  face. 
Hence  originated  their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions. 
The  difference  betAveen  the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of 
mankind  seemed  to  vanish,  when  compared  with  the  bound- 
less interval  Avhich  separated  the  whole  race  from  him  on 
Avliom  tjieir  oAvn  eyes  were  constantly  fixed.  They  recog- 
nized no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor ; and,  confident  of 
that  favor,  they  despised  all  the  accomplishments  and  all  the 
dignities  of  the  Avorld.  If  they  Avere  unacquainted  with  the 
Avorks  of  philosophers  and  poets,  they  Avere  deeply  read  in 
the  oracles  of  God.  If  their  names  were  not  found  in  the 
registers  of  heralds,  they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life. 
If  their  steps  Avere  not  accompanied  by  a splendid  train  of 
menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge  OA^er  them. 
Their  palaces  Avere  houses  not  made  with  hands ; their  dia- 
dems crowns  of  glory  Avhich  should  never  fade  away.  On 
the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests  they  looked 
doAvn  Avith  contempt : for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich  in 
a more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a more  sublime 
language,  nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier  creation,  and 
priests  by  the  imposition  of  a mightier  hand.  The  very 
meanest  of  them  Avas  a being  to  Avhose  fate  a mysterious 
and  terrible  importance  belonged,  on  whose  slightest  action 
the  spirits  of  light  and  darkness  looked  with  anxious  in- 


18G  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

terest,  wlio  liad  been  destined,  before  heaven  and  earth  were 
created,  to  enjoy  a felicity  whicli  sliould  continue  when 
heaven  and  earth  sliould  have  passed  away.  Events  whicli 
short-sighted  politicians  ascribed  to  earthly  causes,  had  been 
ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake  empires  had  risen, 
and  flourished,  and  decayed.  For  his  sake  the  Almighty 
had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the  Evangelist,  and 
the  liarp  of  the  prophet,  lie  had  been  wrested  by  no  com- 
mon deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  common  foe.  He  had 
been  ransomed  by  the  sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by  the 
blood  of  no  earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun 
had  been  darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the 
dead  had  risen,  that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  suffer- 
ings of  her  expiring  God. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men,  the 
one  all  self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion,  the 
other  proud,  calm,  inflexible,  sagacious.  He  prostrated 
himself  in  the  dust  before  his  Maker : but  he  set  his  foot  on 
the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his  devotional  retirement,  he 
prayed  with  convulsions,  and  groans,  and  tears.  He  was 
half-maddened  by  glorious  m-  terrible  illusions.  He  heard 
the  lyres  of  angels  or  the  tempting  whispers  of  fiends.  He 
caught  a gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke  screaming 
from  dreams  of  everlasting  fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought 
himself  intrusted  with  the  sceptre  of  the  millennial  year. 
Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in  the  bitterness  of  his  csoul  that 
God  had  hid  his  face  from  him.  But  when  he  took  his  seat 
in  the  council,  or  girt  on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempes- 
tuous workings  of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  be- 
liind  them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but  their 
uncouth  visages,  and  heard  nothing  from  them  but  their 
groans  and  their  whining  hymns,  might  laugh  at  them. 
But  those  had  little  reason  to  laugh  who  encountered  them 
in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the  field  of  battle.  These  fana- 
tics brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs  a coolness  of  judg- 
ment and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which  some  writers 
have  thought  inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal,  but  which 
were  in  fact  the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  intensity  of 
their  feelings  on  one  subject  made  them  tranquil  on  every 
other.  One  overpowering  sentiment  had  subjected  to  itself 
pity  and  hatred,  ambition  and  fear.  Death  had  lost  its  ter- 
rors and  ])leasure  its  charms.  They  had  their  smiles  and 
their  tears,  their  ra])tures  and  their  sorrows,  but  not  for  the 
things  of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had  made  them  Stoics, 


MILTON. 


187 


had  cleared  their  minds  from  every  vulgar  passion  and  pre- 
judice,  and  raised  them  above  the  influence  of  danger  and  of 
corruption.  It  sometimes  might  lead  them  to  pursue  un 
wise  ends,  but  never  to  choose  unwise  means.  They  went 
through  the  world,  like  Sir  Artegal’s  iron  man  Talus  with  his 
flail,  crushing  and  trampling  down  oppressors,  mingling  with 
human  beings,  but  having  neither  part  or  lot  in  human  infir- 
mities, insensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain,  not  to 
be  pierced  by  any  weapon,  not  to  be  withstood  by  any  bar- 
rier. 

Such  Ave  believe  to  have  been  the  character  of  the  Puri- 
tans We  perceive  the  absurdity  of  their  manners.  We 
dislike  the  sullen  gloom  of  their  domestic  habits.  We  ac- 
knowledge that  the  tone  of  their  minds  was  often  injured 
by  straining  after  things  too  high  for  mortal  reach  : and  Ave 
knoAV  that,  in  spite  of  their  hatred  of  Popery,  they  too 
often  fell  into  the  Avorst  Auces  of  that  bad  system,  intoler- 
ance and  extravagant  austerity,  that  they  had  their  anchor- 
ites and  their  crusades,  their  Dunstans  and  their  De  Mon- 
forts,  their  Dominies  and  their  Escobars.  Yet,  when  all 
circumstances  are  taken  into  consideration,  we  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  pronounce  them  a brave,  a wise,  an  honest,  and  an 
useful  body. 

The  Puritans  espoused  the  cause  of  civil  liberty  mainly 
because  it  Avas  the  cause  of  religion.  There  was  another 
party,  by  no  means  numerous,  but  distinguished  by  learning 
and  ability,  which  acted  with  them  on  very  different  princi- 
ples. We  speak  of  those  whom  Cromwell  was  accustomed 
to  call  the  Heathens,  men  who  were,  in  the  phraseology  of 
that  time,  doubting  Thomases  or  careless  GalliosAvith  regard 
to  religious  subjects,  but  passionate  worshippers  of  freedom. 
Heated  by  the  study  of  ancient  literature,  they  set  up  their 
country  as  their  idol,  and  proposed  to  themselves  the  heroes 
of  Plutarch  as  their  examples.  They  seem  to  have  borne 
some  resemblance  to  the  Brissotines  of  the  French  Revolu 
tion.  But  it  is  not  very  easy  to  draw  the  line  of  distinction 
between  them  and  their  dcA'out  associates,  whose  tone  and 
manner  they  sometin^es  found  it  convenient  to  affect,  and 
sometimes,  it  is  probable,  imperceptibly  adopted. 

We  now  come  to  the  Royalists.  We  shall  attempt  to 
speak  of  them,  as  we  haA^e  spoken  of  their  antagonists,  Avith 
perfect  candor.  We  sliall  not  charge  upon  a Avhole  party 
the  profligacy  and  baseness  of  the  .horse-boys,  gamblers 
and  bravoes,  whom  the  hope  of  license  and  plunder  attracted 


188 


MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


from  all  the  dens  of  Whitefriars  to  the  standard  of  Charles, 
and  who  disgraced  their  associates  by  excesses  which,  under 
the  stricter  discipline  of  the  Parliamentary  armies,  were 
never  tolerated.  We  will  select  a more  favorable  specimen. 
Thinking  as  we  do  that  the  cause  of  the  King  was  the  cause 
of  bigotry  and  tyranny,  we  yet  cannot  refrain  ^rom  looking 
with  complacency  on  the  character  of  the  honest  old  cava- 
liers. We  feel  a national  pride  in  comparing  them  witli  the 
instruments  which  the  despots  of  other  countries  are  com- 
pelled to  employ,  with  the  mutes  who  throng  their  ante 
chambers,  and  the  Janissaries  who  mount  guard  at  their 
gates.  Our  royalist  countrymen  were  not  heartless,  dang- 
ling courtiers,  bowing  at  every  step,  and  simpering  at  every 
word.  They  were  not  mere  machines  for  destruction, 
dressed  up  in  uniforms  caned  into  skill,  intoxicated  into 
valor,  defending  without  love,  destroying  without  liatred. 
There  was  a freedom  in  their  subserviency,  a nobleness  in 
their  very  degradation.  The  sentiment  of  individual  inde- 
pendence was  strong  within  them.  They  were  indeed  mis- 
led, but  by  no  base  or  selfish  motive.  Compassion  and 
romantic  honor,  the  prejudices  of  childhood,  and  the  vener- 
able names  of  history,  threw  over  them  a spell  potent  as 
that  of  Duessa  ; and,  like  the  Red-Cross  Knight,  they  thought 
tha.t  they  were  doing  battle  for  an  injured  beauty,  while 
they  defended  a false  and  loathsome  sorceress.  In  truth 
they  scarcely  entered  at  all  into  the  merits  of  the  political 
question.  It  was  not  for  a treacherous  king  or  an  intolerant 
church  that  they  fo^ight,  but  for  the  old  banner  which  had 
waved  in  so  many  battles  over  the  heads  of  their  fathers, 
and  for  the  altars  at  which  they  had  received  the  hands  of 
their  brides.  Though  nothing  could  be  more  erroneous 
than  their  political  opinions,  they  possessed,  in  a far  greater 
degree  than  their  adversaries,  those  qualities  which  are  the 
grace  of  private  life.  With  many  of  the  vices  of  the  Round 
Table,  they  had  also  many  of  its  virtues,  courtesy,  generos- 
ity>  veracity,  tenderness,  and  respect  for  women.  They  had 
far  more  both  of  profound  and  of  polite  learning  than  the 
Puritans.  Their  manners  were  more  engaging,  their  tempers 
more  amiable,  their  tastes  more  elegant,  and  their  households 
more  cheerful. 

Milton  did  not  strictly  belong  to  any  of  the  classes  which 
we  have  described.  He  was  not  a Puritan.  He  was  not  a 
freethinker.  He  was  not  a Royalist.  In  his  character  the 
noblest  qualities  of  every  party  were  combined  in  harmo* 


MILTON. 


189 


nious  unio/i.  From  the  Parliament  and  fi.  'm  the  Court,  from 
the  conventicle  and  from  the  Gothic  cloister,  from  the 
gloomy  and  sepulchral  circles  of  the  Roumlheads,  and  from 
the  Christmas  revel  of  the  hospitable  Cavalier,  bis  nature 
selected  and  drew  t9  itself  whatever  was  great  and  good, 
while  it  rejected  all  the  base  and  pernicious  ingredients  by 
which  those  finer  elements  were  defiled.  Like  the  Puritans, 
he  lived 

“ As  ever  in  his  great  task-master’s  eye.*’ 

Like  them,  he  kept  his  mind  continually  fixed  on  an  Al- 
mighty Judge  and  an  eternal  reward.  And  hence  he 
acquired  their  contempt  of  external  circumstances,  their  for- 
titude, their  tranquillity,  their  inflexible  resolution.  But 
not  the  coolest  sceptic  or  the  most  profane  scoffer  was  more 
perfectly  free  from  the  contagion  of  their  frantic  delusions, 
their  savage  manners,  their  ludicrous  jargon,  their  scorn  )f 
science,  and  their  aversion  to  pleasure.  Hating  tyranny 
with  a perfect  hatred,  he  had  nevertheless  all  the  estimable 
and  ornamental  qualities  which  were  almost  entirely  monop- 
olized by  the  party  of  the  tyrant.  There  was  none  who  had 
a stronger  sense  of  the  value  of  literature,  a finer  relish  for 
every  elegant  amusement,  or  a more  chivalrous  delicacy  of 
honor  and  love.  Though  his  opinions  were  democratic,  his 
tastes  and  his  associations  were  such  as  harmonize  best  with 
monarchy  and  aristocracy.  He  was  under  the  influence  of 
all  the  feelings  by  which  the  gallant  Cavaliers  were  misled. 
But  of  those  feelings  he  was  the  master  and  not  the  slave. 
Like  the  hero  of  Homer,  he  enjoyed  all  the  pleasures  of 
fascination  ; but  he  was  not  fascinated.  He  listened  to  the 
song  of  the  Syrens  ; yet  he  glided  by  without  being  seduced 
to  their  fatal  shore.  He  tasted  the  cup  of  Circe  ; but  he 
bore  about  him  a sure  antidote  against  the  effects  of  its 
bewitching  sweetness.  The  allusions  which  captivated  his 
imagination  never  impaired  his  reasoning  powers.  The 
statesman  was  proof  against  the  splendor,  the  solemnity, 
and  the  romance  which  enchanted  the  poet.  Any  person 
who  will  contrast  the  sentiments  expressed  in  his  treatises 
on  Prelacy  with  the  exquisite  lines  on  ecclesiastical  architec- 
ture and  music  in  the  Penseroso,  which  was  published  about 
the  same  time,  will  understand  our  meaning.  This  is  an 
inconsistency  wLich,  more  than  any  thing  else,  raises  his 
character  in  our  estimation,  because  it  shows  how  many 
private  tastes  and  feelings  he  sacrificed,  in  order  to  do  wluit 
he  considered  his  duty  to  mankind.  It  is  the  very  struggk 


190  MACAULAVs  miscellaneous  AVKITINGS. 

of  the  nohlc  Othello.  Ills  heart  relenhs : but  his  hand  is 
firm.  He  does  nought  in  hate,  but  all  in  honor.  He  kisses 
the  beautiful  deceiver  before  he  destroys  her. 

That  from  which  the  public  character  of  Milton  derives 
its  great  and  peculiar  splendor,  still  remains  to  be  men- 
tioned. If  he  exerted  himself  to  overthrow  a forsworn  king 
and  a persecuting  hierarchy,  he  exerted  himself  in  conjunc- 
tion with  others.  But  the  glory  of  the  battle  which  ho 
fought  for  the  species  of  freedom  which  is  the  most  valu- 
able, and  which  was  then  the  least  understood,  the  freedom 
of  the  human  mind,  is  all  his  own.  Thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  among  his  contemporaries  raised  their  voices 
against  Ship-money  and  the  Star-chamber.  But  there  were 
few  indeed  who  discerned  the  more  fearful  evils  of  moral 
and  intellectual  slavery,  and  the  benefits  which  would  result 
from  the  liberty  of  the  press  and  the  unfettered  exercise  of 
private  judgment.  These  Avere  the  objects  Avhich  Milton 
justly  conceived  to  be  the  most  important.  lie  was  desir- 
ous that  the  people  should  think  for  themselves  as  well  as 
tax  themselves,  and  should  be  emancipated  from  the  do- 
minion of  prejudice  as  well  as  from  that  of  Charles.  He 
knew  that  those  who,  with  the  best  intentions,  OA^erlooked 
these  schemes  of  reform,  and  contented  themselves  Avith 
pulling  doAvn  the  King  and  imprisoning  the  malignants, 
acted  like  the  heedless  brothers  in  his  OAvn  poem,  Avho,  in 
their  eagerness  to  disperse  the  train  of  the  sorcerer,  neglected 
the  means  of  liberating  the  capti\"e.  They  thought  only  oi 
conquering  Avhen  they  should  have  thought  of  disenchanting. 

Oh,  he  mistook  ! Ye  should  have  snatched  his  wand 
And  bound  him  fast.  AVithout  the  rod  reversed, 

And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power, 

We  cannot  free  the  lady  that  sits  here 
Bound  in  strong  fetters  fixed  and  motionless.’* 

To  reverse  the  rod,  to  spell  the  charm  backward,  to  break 
the  ties  which  bound  a stupefied  people  to  the  seat  of 
enchantment,  was  the  noble  aim  of  Milton.  To  this  all  his 
public  conduct  Avas  directed.  For  this  he  joined  the 
Presbyterians  ; for  this  he  forsook  them.  He  fought  their 
perilous  battle  ; but  he  turned  aAvay  with  disdain  from  their 
insolent  triumph.  He  saAV  that  they,  like  those  whom  they 
had  vanquished,  were  hostile  to  the  liberty  of  thought.  Ho 
therefore  joined  the  Independents,  and  called  upon  Crom- 
well to  break  the  secular  cliain,  and  to  save  free  conscience 
from  the  paw  of  the  Presbyterian  wolf.  With  a view  to 


MILTON. 


1^1 


the  same  great  object,  he  attacked  the  licensing  system,  in 
that  sublime  treatise  which  every  statesman  should  wear  as 
a sign  upon  his  hand  and  as  frontlets  between  his  eyes.  Ilis 
attacks  were,  in  general,  directed  less  against  j>articular 
abuses  than  against  those  deeply-seated  errors  on  which 
almost  all  abuses  are  founded,  the  servile  worship  of  eminem 
men  and  the  irrational  dread  of  innovation. 

That  he  might  shake  the  foundations  of  these  debasing 
sentiments  more  effectually,  he  always  selected  for  himself 
the  boldest  literary  services.  lie  never  came  up  in  the  rear 
when  the  outworks  had  been  carried  and  the  breach  entered. 
He  pressed  into  the  forlorn  hope.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
changes,  he  wrote  with  incomparable  energy  and  eloquence 
against  the  bishops.  But,  when  his  opinion  seemed  likely 
to  prevail,  he  passed  on  to  other  subjects,  and  abandoned 
prelacy  to  the  crowd  of  Avriters  Avho  now  hastened  to  insult 
a falling  party.  There  is  no  more  hazardous  enterprise  than 
that  of  bearing  the  torch  of  truth  into  those  dark  and  infected 
recesses  in  which  no  light  has  ever  shone.  But  it  was  the 
choice  and  the  pleasure  of  Milton  to  penetrate  the  noisome 
vapors,  and  to  brave  the  terrible  explosion.  Those  Avho 
most  disapprove  of  his  opinions  must  I’espect  the  hardihood 
Avith  Avhich  he  maintained  them.  He,  in  general,  left  to 
others  the  credit  of  expounding  and  defending  the  popular 
parts  of  his  religious  and  political  creed.  He  took  his  OAvn 
stand  upon  those  which  the  great  body  of  his  countrymen 
reprobated  as  criminal,  or  derided  as  paradoxical.  He  stood 
up  for  diAmrce  and  regicide.  He  attacked  the  preAmiling 
systems  of  education.  Ilis  radiant  and  beneficent  career 
resembled  that  of  the  god  of  light  and  fertility. 

“ Nitor  in  ndversum  ; nec  me,  qui  csetera,  vincit 
Impetus,  et  raxndo  contraries  evehor  orbi.” 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  prose  Avritings  of  Milton 
should,  in  our  time,  be  so  little  read.  As  compositions,  they 
deserve  the  attention  of  every  man  Avdio  Avishes  to  become 
acquainted  Avith  the  full  power  of  the  English  language. 
They  abound  Avith  passages  compared  Avitli  which  the  finest 
declamations  of  Burke  sink  into  insignificance.  They  are  a 
perfect  field  of  cloth  of  gold.  The  style  is  stiff  Avith  gorgeous 
embroidery.  Not  even  in  the  earlier  books  of  the  Paradise 
Lost  has  the  great  poet  ever  risen  higher  than  in  those  parts 
of  his  controversial  works  in  which  his  feelings,  excited  by 
conflict,  find  a vent  in  bursts  of  devotional  and  lyric  rapture. 


192  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

It  is,  to  borroAV  his  own  majestic  language,  “ a seven-fold 
chorus  of  liallclujalis  and  harping  syinjdionies.” 

Y.^e  had  intended  to  look  more  closely  at  these  perform- 
a^vces,  to  analyze  the  peculiarities  of  the  diction,  to  dwell 
at  some  length  on  the  sublime  wisdom  of  the  Areopagitica 
and  the  nervous  rhetoric  of  the  Iconoclast,  and  to  point  out 
some  of  those  magnificent  passages  wdiich  occur  in  the 
Treatis:'  of  Reformation,  and  the  Animadversions  on  the 
Remonstrant.  But  the  length  to  which  our  remarks  have 
already  extended  renders  this  impossible. 

We  must  conclude.  And  yet  w^e  can  scarcely  tear  our- 
selves away  from  the  subject.  The  days  immediately  fol- 
lowing the  publication  of  this  relic  of  Milton  appear  to  be 
peculiarly  set  apart,  and  consecrated  ;:o  his  memory.  And 
we  shall  scarcely  be  censured  if,  on  this  his  festival,  Ave  be 
found  lingering  near  his  shrine,  hoAV  worthless  soever  may 
be  the  offering  which  we  bring  to  it.  While  this  book  lies 
on  our  table,  we  seem  to  be  contemporaries  of  the  Avriter. 
We  are  transported  a hundred  and  fifty  years  back.  We 
can  almost  fancy  that  we  are  visiting  him  in  his  small  lodg- 
ing ; that  we  see  him  sitting  at  the  old  organ  beneath  the 
faded  green  hangings ; that  Ave  can  catch  the  quick  twinkle 
of  his  eyes,  rolling  in  vain  to  find  the  day  ; that  we  are  read- 
ing in  the  lines  of  his  noble  countenance  the  proud  and  mourn- 
ful history  of  his  glory  and  his  affliction.  We  image  to 
ourselves  the  breathless  silence  in  Avhich  we  should  listen  to 
his  slightest  Avord,  the  passionate  veneration  with  Avhich  Ave 
should  kneel  to  kiss  his  hand  and  weep  upon  it,  the  earnest- 
ness with  Avhich  wc  should  endeavor  to  console  him,  if 
indeed  such  a spirit  could  need  consolation,  for  the  neglect 
of  an  age  unworthy  of  his  talents  and  his  virtues,  the  eager- 
ness with  which  we  should  contest  Avith  his  daughters,  or 
with  his  Quaker  friend  Elwood,  the  privilege  of  reading 
Homer  to  him,  or  of  taking  down  the  immortal  accents 
which  flowed  from  his  bps. 

These  are  perhaps  foolish  feelings.  Yet  Ave  cannot  be 
ashamed  of  them ; nor  shall  Ave  be  sorry  if  Avhat  we  have 
written  shall  in  any  degree  excite  them  in  other  minds 
We  are  not  much  in  the  habit  of  idolizing  either  the  living 
or  the  dead.  And  we  think  that  there  is  no  more  certain 
indication  of  a Aveak  and  ill-regulated  intellect  than  that 
propensity  which,  for  want  of  a better  name,  we  will  ven 
ture  to  cliristcn  Boswellism.  But  there  arc  a fcAV  characters 
whicli  haA'C  stood  the  closest  scrutiny  and  the  severest  tests, 


MACHIAYELLI. 


193 


which  liave  been  tried  in  the  furnace  and  have  proved  pure, 
which  have  been  weighed  in  the  balance  and  have  not 
been  found  wanting,  which  have  been  declared  sterling  by 
the  general  consent  of  mankind,  and  which  are  visibly 
stamped  with  the  image  and  superscription  of  the  Most 
High.  These  great  men  we  trust  that  we  know  how  to 
prize  ; and  of  these  was  Milton.  The  sight  of  his  books, 
the  sound  of  his  name,  are  pleasant  to  us.  His  thoughts  re- 
ferable those  celestial  fruits  and  flowers  which  the  Virgin 
Martyr  of  Massinger  sent  dowm  from  the  gardens  of  Para- 
-lise  to  the  earth,  and  v/hich  were  distinguished  from  the 
productions  of  other  soils,  not  only  by  superior  bloom  and 
sweetness,  but  by  miraculous  efficacy  to  invigorate  and  to 
heal.  They  are  powerful,  not  only  to  delight,  but  to  elevate 
and  purify.  Nor  do  we  envy  the  man  who  can  study  either 
the  life  or  the  writings  of  the  great  poet  and  patriot,  with- 
out aspiring  to  emulate,  not  indeed  the  sublime  works  with 
which  his  genius  has  enriched  our  literature,  but  the  zeal 
with  which  he  labored  for  the  public  good,  the  fortitude 
with  which  he  endured  every  private  calamity,  the  lofty 
disdain  with  which  he  looked  down  on  temptations  and 
dangers,  the  deadly  hatred  which  he  bore  to  bigots  and 
tyrants,  and  the  faith  which  he  so  sternly  kept  with  his 
country  and  with  his  fame. 


MACHIAYELLI.* 

{Edinburgh  RevieWy  March,  1827.) 

Those  who  have  attended  to  this  practice  of  our  literary 
tribunal  are  well  aware  that,  by  means  of  certain  legal 
fictions  similar  to  those  of  Westminster  Hall,  we  are  fre- 
quently enabled  to  take  cognizance  of  cases  lying  beyond 
the  sphere  of  our  original  jurisdiction.  We  need  hardly 
say,  therefore,  that  in  the  present  instance  M.  Perier  is  merely 
a Richard  Roe,  who  will  not  be  mentioned  in  any  subse- 
quent stage  of  the  proceedings,  and  whose  name  is  used  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  bringing  Machiavelli  into  court. 

• (Euvres  computes  de  Machiavel,  traduites  par  J,  V,  Peoieb.  Paris  j 

Xo40« 

VoL.  I.— 13 


194  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitinos. 

We  doubt  wlietlier  any  name  in  literary  history  be  so 
generally  odious  as  that  of  the  man  whose  character  and 
writings  we  novv^  ])ropose  to  consider.  The  terms  in  which 
he  is  commonly  described  would  seem  to  import  that  lie 
was  the  Tempter,  the  Evil  Principle,  the  discoverer  of  ambi 
lion  and  revenge,  the  original  inventor  of  perjury,  and  that, 
before  the  puWication  of  his  fatal  Prince,  there  had  never 
been  a hypocrite,  a tyrant,  or  a traitor,  a simulated  virt  ue, 
or  a convenient  crime.  One  writer  gravely  assures  us  that 
Maurice  of  Saxony  learned  all  his  fraudulent  policy  from 
that  execrable  volume.  Another  remarks  that  since  it  was 
translated  into  Turkish,  the  Sultans  have  been  more  ad- 
dicted than  formerly  to  the  custom  of  strangling  their 
brothers.  Lord  Lyttelton  charges  the  poor  Florentine  with 
the  nmnifold  treasons  of  the  house  of  Guise,  and  with  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Several  authors  have  hinted 
that  the  Gunpowder  Plot  is  to  be  primarily  attributed  to 
his  doctrines,  and  seem  to  think  that  his  effigy  ought  to  be 
substituted  for  that  of  Guy  Faux,  in  those  processions  by 
which  the  ingenious  youth  of  England  annually  commemo- 
rate the  preservation  of  the  Three  Estates.  The  Church  of 
Rome  has  pronounced  his  works  accursed  things.  Nor  have 
our  own  countrymen  been  backward  in  testifying  their  opin- 
ion of  his  merits.  Out  of  his  surname  they  have  coined  an 
epithet  for  a knave,  and  out  of  his  Christian  name  a syn- 
onyme  for  the  Devil.* 

It  is  indeed  scarcely  p»ossible  for  any  person,  not  well 
acquainted  with  tlie  history  and  literature  of  Italy,  to  read 
without  horror  and  amazement  the  celebrated  treatise  which 
has  brought  so  much  obloquy  on  the  name  of  Machiavelli. 
Such  a display  of  wickedness,  naked  yet  not  ashamed,  such 
cool,  judicious,  scientific  atrocity,  seemed  rather  to  belong 
to  a fiend  than  to  the  most  depraved  of  men.  Principles 
which  the  most  hardened  ruffian  would  scarcely  hint  to  his 
most  trusted  accomplice,  or  avow,  without  the  disguise  of 
i)Ome  palliating  sophism,  even  to  his  own  mind,  are  professed 
vvithout  the  slightest  circumlocution,  and  Assumed  as  the 
fundamental  axioms  of  all  political  science. 

It  is  not  strange  that  ordinary  readers  should  regard  the 
author  of  such  a book  as  the  most  depraved  and  shameless 
of  human  brings.  Wise  men,  however,  have  always  beep 

Nick  MacMavel  no'^et  a trick, 

Tho’  he  gave  his  i'arr.e  to  car  old  Nick. 

Hiulibrasy  Part  III.  Canto  T. 

But.  wo  believe,  there  is  a schism  on  this  subject  among  the  antiquarian^. 


MACUIAVELLI. 


195 


inclined  to  look  with  great  suspicion  on  the  angels  and  dae- 
mons of  the  multitude  : and  in  the  present  instance,  sev- 
eral circumstances  have  led  even  superficial  observers  to 
question  the  justice  of  the  vulgar  decision.  It  is  notorious 
that  Machiavelli  was,  through  life,  a zealous  republican.  In 
the  same  year  in  wliich  he  composed  his  manual  of  King- 
craft, he  suffered  imprisonment  and  torture  in  the  cause  of 
public  liberty.  It  seems  inconceivable  that  the  martyr  of 
freedom  should  have  designedly  acted  as  the  apostle  of  tyr- 
anny. Several  eminent  writers  have,  therefore,  endeavored 
to  detect  in  this  unfortunate  performance  some  concealed 
meaning  more  consistent  with  the  character  and  conduct  of 
the  author  than  that  which  appears  at  the  first  glance. 

One  hypothesis  is  that  Machiavelli  intended  to  practise 
on  the  young  Lorenzo  de  Medici  a fraud  similar  to  that 
which  Sunderland  is  said  to  have  employed  against  our 
James  the  Second,  and  that  he  urged  his  pupil  to  violent 
and  perfidious  measures,  as  the  surest  means  of  accelerating 
the  moment  of  deliverance  and  revenge.  Another  supposi- 
tion which  Lord  Bacon  seems  to  countenance,  is  that  the 
treatise  was  merely  a piece  of  grave  irony,  intended  to  warn 
nations  against  the  arts  of  ambitious  men.  It  would  be 
easy  to  show  that  neither  of  these  solutions  is  consistent 
with  many  passages  in  The  Prince  itself.  But  the  most  de- 
cisive refutation  is  that  which  is  furnished  by  the  other 
works  of  Machiavelli.  In  all  the  writings  which  he  gave  to 
the  public,  and  in  all  those  which  the  research  of  editors 
has,  in  the  course  of  three  centuries,  discovered,  in  his  Com- 
edies, designed  for  the  entertainment  of  the  multitude,  in 
his  Comments  on  Livy,  intended  for  the  perusal  of  the  most 
enthusiastic  patriots  of  Florence,  in  his  History,  inscribed 
to  one  of  the  most  amiable  and  estimable  of  the  Popes,  in 
his  public  dispatches,  in  his  private  memoranda,  the  same 
obliquity  of  moral  principle  for  which  The  Prince  is  so 
severely  censured  is  more  or  less  discernible.  We  doubt 
whether  it  would  be  possible  to  find,  in  all  the  many  volume^? 
of  his  compositions,  a single  expression  indicating  that  dis- 
simulation and  treachery  had  ever  struck  him  as  discredit- 
able. 

After  this,  it  may  seem  ridiculous  to  say  that  we  are  ac- 
quainted with  few  writings  which  exhibit  so  much  elevation 
of  sentiment,  so  pure  and  warm  a zeal  for  the  public  good, 
or  so  just  a view  of  the  duties  and  rights  of  citizens,  as  those 
of  Machiavelli.  Yet  so  it  is.  And  even  from  The  Prince 


196 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


itself  we  could  select  many  passages  in  support  of  this  re- 
mark. To  a reader  of  our  age  and  country  this  inconsis- 
tency is,  at  first,  ])erfectly  bewildering.  The  whole  man 
seems  to  be  an  enigma,  a grotesque  assemblage  of  incongru- 
ous qualities,  selfishness  and  generosity,  cruelty  and  benev- 
olence, craft  and  simplicity,  abject  villainy  and  romantic 
heroism.  One  sentence  is  such  as  a veteran  diplomatist 
would  scarcely  write  in  cipher  for  the  direction  of  his  most 
confidential  spy ; the  next  seems  to  be  extracted  from  a 
theme  composed  by  an  ardent  school-boy  on  the  death  of 
Leonidas.  An  act  of  dexterous  perfidy,  and  an  act  of 
patriotic  self-devotion,  call  forth  the  same  kind  and  the  same 
degree  of  respectful  admiration.  The  moral  sensibility  of 
the  writer  seems  at  once  to  be  morbidly  obtuse  and  mor- 
bidly acute.  Two  characters  altogether  dissimilar  are  united 
in  him.  They  are  not  merely  joined,  but  interwoven.  They 
are  the  warp  and  the  woof  of  his  mind  ; and  their  combina- 
tion, like  that  of  the  variegated  threads  in  shot  silk,  gives 
to  the  whole  texture  a glancing  and  ever-changing  appear- 
ance. The  explanation  might  have  been  easy,  if  he  had 
been  a very  weak  or  a very  affected  man.  But  he  was 
evidently  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Ilis  works  prove, 
beyond  all  contradiction,  that  his  understanding  was  strong, 
liis  taste  pure,  and  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous  exquisitely 
keen. 

This  is  strange  : and  yet  the  strangest  is  behind.  There 
is  no  reason  whatever  to  think,  that  those  amongst  whom  he 
lived  saw  any  thing  shocking  or  incongruous  in  his  writings. 
Abundant  proofs  remain  of  the  high  estimation  in  w'hich 
both  his  works  and  his  person  were  held  by  the  most  re- 
spectable among  his  contemporaries.  Clement  the  Seventh 
patronized  the  publication  of  those  very  books  which  the 
Council  of  Trent,  in  the  following  generation,  pronounced 
unfit  for  the  perusal  of  Christians.  Some  members  of  the 
democratical  party  censured  the  Secretary  for  dedicating 
The  Prince  to  a patron  who  bore  the  unpopular  name  of 
Medici.  But  to  those  immoral  doctrines  which  have  since 
called  forth  such  severe  reprehensions  no  exception  appears 
to  have  been  taken.  The  cry  against  them  was  first  raised 
beyond  the  Alps,  and  seems  to  have  been  heard  with  amaze- 
ment in  Italy.  The  earliest  assailant,  as  far  as  we  are  aware, 
was  a countryman  of  our  own.  Cardinal  Pole.  The  author 
of  the  Anti-Machiavelli  w^as  a French  Protestant. 

It  is,  therefore,  in  the  state  of  moral  feeling  among  the 


MACniAVELLI. 


197 


Italians  of  those  times  that  we  must  seek  for  the  real  ex 
planation  of  what  seems  most  mysterious  in  the  life  and 
writings  of  this  remarkable  man.  As  this  is  a subject  wliich 
suggests  many  interesting  considerations,  both  political  and 
metaphysical,  we  shall  make  no  apology  for  discussing  it 
at  some  length. 

During  the  gloomy  and  disastrous  centuries  which  fol- 
lowed the  downfall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Italy  had  ]>re- 
served,  in  a far  greater  degree  than  any  other  part  of  West- 
ern Europe,  the  traces  of  ancient  civilization.  The  night 
which  descended  upon  her  was  the  night  of  an  Arctic  sum- 
mer. The  dawn  began  to  reappear  before  the  last  reflection 
of  the  preceding  sunset  had  faded  from  the  horizon.  It  was 
in  the  time  of  the  French  Merovingians  and  of  the  Saxon 
Heptarchy  that  ignorance  and  ferocity  seemed  to  have  done 
their  worst.  Yet  even  then  the  Neapolitan  provinces,  rec- 
ognizing the  authority  of  the  Eastern  Empire,  preserved 
something  of  Eastern  knowledge  and  refinement.  Rome, 
protected  by  the  sacred  character  of  her  Pontiffs,  enjoyed 
at  least  comparative  security  and  repose.  Even  in  those 
regions  where  the  sanguinary  Lombards  had  fixed  their 
monarchy,  there  was  incomparably  more  of  wealth,  of  in- 
formation, of  physical  comfort,  and  of  social  order,  than 
could  be  found  in  Gaul,  Britain,  or  Germany. 

That  which  most  distinguished  Italy  from  the  neighbor- 
ing countries  was  the  importance  which  the  population  of  the 
towns,  at  a very  early  period,  began  to  acquire.  Some 
cities  had  been  founded  in  wild  and  remote  situations,  by 
fugitives  who  had  escaped  from  the  rage  of  the  barbarians. 
Such  Avere  Venice  and  Genoa,  which  preserved  their  free- 
dom by  their  obscurity,  till  they  became  able  to  preserve  it 
by  their  power.  Other  cities  seem  to  have  retained,  under 
all  the  changing  dynasties  of  invaders,  under  Odoacer  and 
Theodoric,  Narses  and  Alboin,  the  municipal  institutions 
which  had  been  conferred  on  them  by  the  liberal  policy  of 
the  Great  Republic.  In  provinces  which  the  central  gov- 
ernment was  too  feeble  either  to  protect  or  to  oppress,  these 
institutions  gradually  acquired  stability  and  vigor.  The 
citizens,  defended  by  their  walls,  and  governed  by  their  own 
magistrates  and  their  OAvn  by-laws,  enjoyed  a considerable 
share  of  republican  independence.  Thus  a strong  demo- 
cratic spirit  was  called  into  action.  The  Carlovingian  sover- 
eigns Avere  too  imbecile  to  subdue  it.  The  generous  policy 
of  Otho  encouraged  it.  It  might  perhaps  have  been  sup- 


198 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WEITINGfl. 


pressed  by  a close  coulitioii  between  the  Church  and  the  Em- 
pire. It  was  fostered  and  invigorated  by  their  disputes.  In 
the  twelfth  century  it  attained  its  full  vigor,  and,  after  a 
long  and  doubtful  conflict,  triumplied  over  the  abilities  and 
courage  of  the  Swabian  Princes. 

The  assistance  of  the  Ecclesiastical  ])ower  had  greatly 
contributed  to  the  success  of  the  Guelfs.  That  success 
would,  however,  liave  been  a doubtful  good,  if  its  only 
effect  had  been  to  substitute  amoral  for  apolitical  servitu<lc 
and  to  exalt  the  Popes  at  the  expense  of  the  Caesars. 
Happily  the  public  mind  of  Italy  had  long  contained  the 
seeds  of  free  opinions,  which  were  now  rapidly  developed 
by  the  genial  influence  of  free  institutions.  The  people  of 
that  country  had  observed  the  whole  machinery  of  the  church, 
its  saints  and  its  miracles,  its  lofty  pretensions  and  its  splen- 
did ceremonial,  its  worthless  blessings  and  its  harmless 
curses,  too  long  and  too  closely  to  be  duped.  They  stood 
behind  the  scenes  onw^hich  others  were  gazing  with  childish 
awe  and  interest.  They  Avitnessed  the  arrangement  of  the 
pullies,  and  the  manufacture  of  the  thunders.  They  saw 
the  natural  faces  and  heard  the  natural  voices  of  the  actors. 
Distant  nations  looked  on  the  Pope  as  the  vicegerent  of  the 
Almighty,  the  oracle  of  the  All-wise,  the  umpire  from  whose 
decisions,  in  the  disputes  either  of  theologians  or  of  kings, 
no  Christian  ought  to  appeal.  The  Italians  were  acquainted 
with  all  the  follies  of  his  youth,  and  with  all  the  dishonest 
arts  by  w hich  he  had  attained  power.  They  knew  how 
often  he  had  employed  the  keys  of  the  Church  to  release 
himself  from  the  most  sacred  engagements,  and  its  wealth 
to  pamper  his  mistresses  and  nephews.  The  doctrines  and 
rites  of  tho  established  religion  they  treated  Avith  decent 
reverence.  But  though  they  still  called  themselves  Catho- 
lics, they  had  ceased  to  be  Papists.  Those  spiritual  arms 
w^hich  carried  terror  into  the  palaces  and  camps  of  the 
proudest  sovereigns  excited  only  contempt  in  the  imme- 
diate neighborhood  of  the  Vatican.  Alexander,  when  he 
commanded  our  Henry  the  Second  to  submit  to  the  lash  be- 
fore the  tomb  of  a rebellious  subject,  was  himself  an  exile. 
The  Romans,  apprehending  that  he  entertained  designs 
against  their  liberties,  had  driven  him  from  their  city ; and, 
though  he  solemnly  promised  to  confine  himself  for  the 
future  to  his  spiritual  functions,  they  still  refused  to  readmit 
him. 

In  eA  ery  other  part  of  Europe,  a large  and  powerfu- 


MACniAVELLI. 


190 


privileged  class  trampled  on  the  people  and  defied  the  govern- 
nieiit.  But,  in  the  most  flourishing  parts  of  Italy,  the  feudal 
nobles  were  reduced  to  comparative  insignificance.  In  some 
districts  they  took  shelter  under  the  protection  of  the 
powerful  commonwealths  which  they  were  unable  to  oppose, 
and  gradually  sank  into  the  mass  of  burghers.  In  other 
places  they  possessed  great  influence  ; but  it  was  an  influ- 
ence widely  different  from  that  which  was  exercised  by  the 
aristocracy  of  any  Transalpine  kingdom.  They  were  not 
petty  princes,  but  eminent  citizens.  Instead  of  strength- 
ening their  fastnesses  among  the  mountains,  they  embel- 
lished their  palaces  in  the  market-place.  The  state  of  so- 
ciety in  the  IsTeapolitan  dominions,  and  in  some  parts  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  State,  more  nearly  resembled  that  which  ex- 
isted in  the  great  monarchies  of  Europe.  But  the  govern- 
ments of  Lombardy  and  Tuscany,  tlirough  all  their  revolu- 
tions, preserved  a different  character.  A people,  when 
assembled  in  a town,  is  far  more  formidable  to  its  rulers 
than  when  dispersed  over  a wide  extent  of  country.  The 
most  arbitrary  of  the  Caesars  found  it  necessary  to  feed  and 
divert  the  inhabitants  of  their  unwieldly  capital  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  provinces.  The  citizens  of  Madrid  have  more 
than  once  besieged  their  sovereign  in  his  own  palace,  and 
extorted  from  him  the  most  humiliating  concessions.  The 
Sultans  have  often  been  compelled  to  propitiate  the  furious 
rabble  of  Constantinople  with  the  head  of  an  unpopular 
Vizier.  From  the  same  cause  there  was  a certain  tinge  of 
democracy  in  the  monarchies  and  aristocracies  of  Northern 
Italy. 

Thus  liberty,  partially  indeed  and  transiently,  revisited 
Italy ; and  with  liberty  came  commerce  and  empire,  science 
and  taste,  all  the  comforts  and  all  the  ornaments  of  life. 
The  Crusades,  from  which  the  inhabitants  of  other  countries 
gained  nothing  but  relics  and  wounds,  brought  to  the  rising 
commonwealths  of  the  Adriatic  and  Tyrrhene  seas  a large 
Ticrease  of  wealth,  dominion,  and  knowledge.  The  moral 
and  the  geographical  position  of  those  commonwealths  ena- 
bled them  to  profit  alike  by  the  barbarism  of  the  West  and 
by  the  civilization  of  the  East.  Italian  ships  covered  every 
sea.^  Italian  factories  rose  on  every  shore.  The  tables  of 
Italian  money-changers  were  set  in  every  city.  Manufac- 
tures flourished.  Banks  were  established.  The  operations 
of  the  commercial  machine  were  facilitated  by  many  useful 
and  beautiful  inventions.  We  doubt  whether  any  country 


200  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANKOUR  WRITINGS'. 

of  Europe,  our  own  excepted,  ]iave  at  the  present  timo 
reached  so  liigh  a ])oint  of  wealtli  and  civilization  as  some 
parts  of  Italy  liad  attained  four  liundred  years  ago.  His- 
torians rarely  descend  to  tliose  details  from  wliich  alone  the 
real  state  of  a community  can  be  collected.  Hence  posterity 
is  too  often  deceived  by  the  vague  hyperboles  of  ])oets  and 
rhetoricians,  who  mistake  the  splendor  of  a court  for  tl  e 
happiness  of  a people.  Fortunately,  John  Villani  has  given 
us  an  ample  and  precise  account  of  the  state  of  Florence  in 
the  early  part  of  the  fourteenth  century.  The  revenue  of 
the  Republic  amounted  to  three  hundred  thousand  florins  ; 
a sum  which,  allowing  for  the  depreciation  of  the  precious 
metals,  was  at  least  equivalent  to  six  hundred  thousand 
pounds  sterling:  a larger  sum  than  England  and  Ireland, 
two  centuries  ago,  yielded  annually  to  Elizabeth.  The 
manufacture  of  avooI  alone  employed  two  hundred  factories 
and  thirty  thousand  workmen.  The  cloth  annually  pro- 
duced sold,  at  ah  average,  for  twelve  hundred  thousand 
florins ; a sum  fully  equal,  in  exchangeable  value,  to  two 
millions  and  a half  of  our  money.  Four  hundred  thousand 
florins  were  annually  coined.  Eighty  banks  conducted  the 
commercial  operations,  not  of  Florence  only,  but  of  all  Eu- 
rope. The  transactions  of  these  establishments  were  some- 
times of  a magnitude  which  may  surprise  even  the  con- 
temporaries of  the  Barings  and  the  Rothschilds.  Two 
houses  advanced  to  Edward  the  Third  of  England  upwards 
of  three  hundred  thousand  marks,  at  a time  when  the  mark 
contained  more  silver  than  fifty  shillings  of  the  present  day, 
and  when  the  value  of  silver  was  more  than  quadruple  of 
what  it  now  is.  The  city  and  its  environs  contained  a hun 
dred  and  seventy  thousand  inhabitants.  In  the  various 
schools  about  ten  thousand  children  Avere  taught  to  read ; 
twelve  hundred  studied  arithmetic ; six  hundred  received  a 
learned  education. 

The  progress  of  elegant  literature  and  of  the  fine  arts 
was  proportioned  to  that  of  the  public  prosperity.  Under 
the  despotic  successors  of  Augustus,  all  the  fields  of  the  in- 
tellect had  been  turned  into  arid  wastes,  still  marked  out  by 
formal  boundaries,  still  retaining  the  traces  of  old  cultiva- 
tion, but  yielding  neither  flowers  nor  fruit.  The  deluge  of 
barbarism  came.  It  swept  away  all  the  landmarks.  It 
obliterated  all  the  signs  of  former  tillage.  But  it  fertilized 
while  it  devastated.  When  it  receded,  the  Avilderness  Af'o 
as  the  garden  of  God,  rejoicing  on  every  side,  laughing,  clap 


MACIIIAVELLI. 


201 


ping  its  hands,  pouring  forlli,  in  spontaneous  abundance, 
every  thing  brilliant,  or  fragrant,  or  nourishing.  A new 
language,  characterized  by  simple  sweetness  and  simple 
energy,  had  attained  perfection.  No  tongue  ever  furnished 
more  gorgeous  and  vivid  tints  to  poetry ; nor  w^as  it  long 
before  a poet  appeared,  who  knew  how  to  employ  them. 
Early  in  the  fourteenth  century  came  forth  the  Divine 
Comedy,  beyond  comparison  Mie  greatest  work  of  imagina- 
tion which  had  appeared  since  the  poems  of  Homer.  The 
following  generation  produced  indeed  no  second  Dante  ; but 
it  was  eminently  distinguished  by  general  intellectual 
activity.  The  study  of  the  Latin  Avriters  had  never  been 
wholly  neglected  in  Iti^’ly.  But  Petrarch  introduced  a more 
profound,  liberal,  and  elegant  scholarship,  had  communicated 
to  his  countrymen  that  enthusiasm  for  the  literature,  the 
history,  and  the  antiquities  of  Rome,  which  divided  his  own 
heart  with  a frigid  mistress  and  a more  frigid  Muse.  Boc- 
caccio turned  their  attention  to  the  more  sublime  and  grace- 
ful models  of  Greece. 

From  this  time,  the  admiration  of  learning  and  genius 
became  almost  an  idolatry  among  the  people  of  Italy.  Kings 
and  republics,  cardinals  and  doges,  vied  with  each  other  in 
honoring  and  flattering  Petrarch.  Embassies  from  rival 
states  solicited  the  honor  of  his  instructions.  His  corona- 
tion agitated  the  Court  of  Naples  and  the  people  of  Rome 
as  much  as  the  most  important  political  transaction  could 
have  done.  To  collect  books  and  antiques,  to  found  profes^ 
sorships,  to  patronize  men  of  learning,  became  almost  uni- 
versal fashions  among  the  great.  The  spirit  of  literary  re- 
search allied  itself  to  that  of  commercial  enterprise.  Every 
place  to  which  the  merchant  princes  of  Florence  extended 
their  gigantic  traffic,  from  the  bazars  of  the  Tigris  to  the 
monasteries  of  the  Clyde,  was  ransacked  for  medals  and 
manuscripts.  Architecture,  painting,  and  sculpture,  were 
munificently  encouraged.  Indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to 
name  an  Italian  of  eminence,  during  the  period  of  Avhich  we 
speak,  who,  whatever  may  have  been  his  general  character, 
did  not  at  least  affect  a love  of  letters  and  of  the  arts. 

Knowledge  and  public  prosperity  continued  to  advance 
together.  Both  attained  their  meridian  in  the  age  of 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent.  We  cannot  refrain  from  quoting 
the  splendid  passage,  in  which  the  Tuscan  Thucydides  de- 
scribes the  state  of  Italy  at  that  period.  “ Ridotta  tutta 
m somma  pace  e tranouillita,  coltivata  non  meno  ne’  luoghi 


202 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


/)iti  montuosi  e piti  sterili  che  nolle  piRniire  e region. 
j)ifi  fertili,  ii6  sottoposta  ad  altro  imperio  che  de’  suoi 
inedesimi,  non  solo  era  abbondantissima  d’  abitatori  e di 
ricchezze  ; ma  illustrata,  sonimamente  dalla  magnificenza  di 
niolti  principi,  dallo  s])lendore  di  molte  nobilissime  c bei- 
lissime  citta,  dalla  sedia  e maesta  della  religione,  fioiiva 
d’uomini  prestantissimi  nell’  amininistrazione  delle  cose  pub- 
bliche,  e d’  ingegni  molto  nobili  in  tutte  le  scienze,  ed  in 
qualunque  arte  preclara  ed  industriosa.”  When  we  peruse 
this  just  and  splendid  description,  we  can  scarcely  persuade 
ourselves  that  we  are  reading  of  times  in  which  the  annals 
of  England  a,nd  France  present  us  only  with  a frightful 
spectacle  of  poverty,  barbarity,  and  ignorance.  From  the 
oppressions  of  illiterate  masters,  and  the  sufferings  of  a de- 
graded peasantry,  it  is  delightful  to  turn  to  the  opulent  and 
enlightened  States  of  Italy,  to  the  vast  and  magnificent 
cities,  the  ports,  the  arsenals,  the  villas,  the  museums,  the 
libraries,  the  marts  filled  with  every  article  of  comfort  or 
luxury,  the  factories  swarming  with  artisans,  the  Apennines 
covered  with  rich  cultivation  up  to  their  very  summits,  the 
Po  wafting  the  harvests  of  Lombardy  to  the  granaries  of 
Venice,  and  carrying  back  the  silks  of  Bengal  and  the  furs 
of  Siberia  to  the  palaces  of  Milan.  With  peculiar  pleasure, 
every  cultivated  mind  must  repose  on  the  fair,  the  happy, 
the  glorious  Florence,  the  halls  which  rang  with  the  mirth 
of  Pulci,  the  ceil  where  twinkled  the  midnight  lamp  of 
Politian,  the  statues  on  which  the  young  eye  of  Michael 
Angelo  glared  with  the  frenzy  of  a kindred  inspiration,  the 
gardens  in  which  Lorenzo  meditated  some  sparkling  song 
for  the  May-day  dance  of  the  Etrurian  virgins.  Alas  for  the 
beautiful  city ! Alas,  for  the  wit  and  the  learning,  the  genius 
and  the  love ! 

“Le  donne,  e i cavalier,  gli  affanni,  e gli  agi, 

Che  lie  ’uvogliava  amore  e cortesia 
La  dove  i cuor  son  fatti  si  malvagi."’ 

A time  was  at  hand,  when  all  the  seven  vials  of  the 
Apocalypse  were  to  be  poured  forth  and  shaken  out  over 
those  pleasant  countries,  a time  of  slaughter,  famine,  beg* 
gary,  infamy,  slavery,  despair. 

In  tlie  Italian  States,  as  in  many  natural  bodies,  untimely 
decrepitude  was  the  penalty  of  precocious  maturity.  Their 
early  greatness,  and  their  early  decline,  are  principally  to  be 
attributed  to  the  same  cause,  the  preponderance  which  the 
towns  acquired  in  the  political  system* 


MACniAVELLI. 


2U3 


Tn  a community  of  hunters  or  of  shepherds,  every  man 
easily  and  necessarily  becomes  a soldier.  II is  ordinary 
avocations  are  perfectly  compatible  with  all  the  duties  of 
military  service.  However  remote  may  be  tlie  expedition 
on  which  he  is  bound,  he  finds  it  easy  to  transport  with  him 
the  stock  from  which  he  derives  his  subsistence.  The  whole 
people  is  an  army  ; the  whole  year  a march.  Such  was  the 
state  of  society  which  facilitated  the  gigantic  conquests  of 
Attila  and  Tamerlane. 

But  a people  which  subsists  by  the  cultivation  of  the 
earth  is  in  a very  different  situation.  The  husbandman  is 
bound  to  the  soil  on  which  he  labors.  A long  campaign 
would  be  ruinous  to  him.  Still  his  pursuits  are  such  as  give 
to  his  frame  both  the  active  and  the  passive  strength  neces- 
sary to  a soldier.  Nor  do  they,  at  least  in  the  infancy  of 
agricultural  science,  demand  his  uninterrupted  attention. 
At  particular  times  of  the  year  he  is  almost  wholly  unem- 
ployed, and  can,  without  injury  to  himself,  afford  the  time 
necessary  for  a short  expedition.  Thus  the  legions  of  Rome 
were  supplied  during  its  earlier  wars.  The  season  during 
which  the  fields  did  not  require  the  presence  of  the  cultiva- 
tors sufficed  for  a short  inroad  and  a battle.  These  opera- 
tions, too  frequently  interrupted  to  produce  decisive  results, 
yet  served  to  keep  up  among  the  people  a degree  of  disci- 
pline and  courage  which  rendered  them,  not  only  secure,  but 
formidable.  The  archers  and  billmen  of  the  middle  ages, 
who,  with  provisions  for  forty  days  at  their  backs,  left  the 
fields  for  the  camp,  were  troops  of  the  same  description. 

But  when  commerce  and  manufactures  begin  to  flourish 
a great  change  takes  place.  The  sedentary  habits  of  the 
desk  and  the  loom  render  the  exertions  and  hardships  of 
war  insupportable.  The  business  of  traders  and  artisans 
requires  their  constant  presence  and  attention.  In  such  a 
community  there  is  little  superfluous  time ; but  there  is 
generally  much  superfluous  money.  Some  members  of  the 
society  are,  therefore,  hired  to  relieve  the  rest  from  a task 
inconsistent  with  their  habits  and  engagements. 

The  history  of  Greece  is,  in  this,  as  in  many  other  re- 
spects, the  best  commentary  on  the  history  of  Italy.  Five 
hundred  years  before  the  Christian  era,  the  citizens  of  the 
republics  round  the  ^gean  Sea  formed  perhaps  the  finest 
militia- that  ever  existed.  As  wealth  and  refinement  ad- 
vanced, the  system  underwent  a gradual  alteration.  The 
Ionian  States  were  the  first  in  which  commerce  and  the  arts 


204 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


were  cultivated  and  llio  first  in  which  tlie  ancient  discij»line 
decay(‘d.  Within  eiglity  years  after  the  battle  of  Plataea, 
mercenary  lrooj>s  were  every  where  ])Iying  for  battles  and 
f ieges.  In  the  time  of  Demosthenes,  it  was  scarcely  possible 
to  ])ersuade  or  compel  the  Athenians  to  enlist  for  foreign 
service.  The  laws  of  Lycurgus  prohibited  trade  and  manu- 
factures. The  Sj)artans,  therefore,  continued  to  form  a 
national  force  long  after  their  neighbors  had  begun  to  hire 
soldiers.  But  their  military  spirit  declined  with  their  sin- 
gular institutions.  In  the  second  century  before  Christ, 
Greece  contained  only  one  nation  of  warriors,  the  savage 
highlanders  of  ^tolia,  who  were  some  generations  behind 
their  countrymen  in  civilization  and  intelligence. 

All  the  causes  which  produced  these  efects  among  the 
Greeks  acted  still  more  strongly  on  the  modern  Italians. 
Instead  of  a power  like  Sparta,  in  its  nature  w^arlike,  they 
liad  amongst  them  an  ecclesiastical  state,  in  its  nature  pacific. 
Where  there  are  numerous  slaves,  every  freeman  is  induced 
by  the  strongest  motives  to  familiarize  himself  with  the  use 
of  arms.  The  commonwealths  of  Italy  did  not,  like  those 
of  Greece,  swarm  with  thousands  of  these  household  enemies. 
Lastly,  the  mode  in  wLich  military  operations  were  con- 
ducted during  the  prosperous  times  of  Italy  was  peculiarly 
unfavorable  to  the  formation  of  an  efficient  militia.  Men 
covered  with  iron  from  head  to  foot,  armed  with  ponderous 
lances,  and  mounted  on  horses  of  the  largest  breed,  were 
considered  as  composing  the  strength  of  an  army.  The 
infantry  was  regarded  as  ^'nmuai’atively  wortkless.  and  was 
ic  f3ecame  really  so.  These  tactics  mamtameu 
ineir  ground  for  centuries  in  most  parts  of  Europe.  That 
foot  soldiers  could  Avithstand  the  charge  of  heavy  cavalry 
was  thought  utterly  impossible,  till,  toAvards  the  close  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  the  rude  mountaineers  of  SAvitzerland 
dissoh^ed  the  spell,  and  astounded  the  most  experienced 
generals  by  receiving  the  dreaded  shock  on  an  impenetrable 
forest  of  pikes. 

The  use  of  the  Grecian  spear,  the  Roman  sword,  or  the 
modern  bayonet,  might  be  acquired  with  comparatWe  ease. 
But  nothing  short  of  the  daily  exercise  of  years  could  train 
the  man  at  arms  to  support  his  ponderous  panoply,  and 
manage  his  unwdeldy  Aveapon.  Throughout  Europe  this 
most  important  branch  of  Avar  became  a separate  profession. 
Beyond  the  Alps,  indeed,  though  a profession,  it  was  not 
generally  a trade.  It  Avas  the  duty  and  the  amusement  of 


MACniAVELLT. 


205 


ft  large  class  of  country  gentlemen.  It  was  tlie  service  by 
wliicli  triey  lield  their  lands,  and  the  diversion  by  wJiich,  in 
the  absence  of  mental  resources,  tliey  beguiled  thcir  leisiira 
But  in  the  Northern  States  of  Italy,  as  we  liave  already  re- 
marked, the  growing  ])ower  of  the  cities,  where  it  had  not 
exterminated  this  order  of  men,  had  completely  changed 
their  habits.  Here,  therefore,  the  practice  of  employing 
mercenaries  became  universal,  at  a time  when  it  was  almost 
unknown  in  other  countries. 

When  war  becomes  the  trade  of  a separate  class,  the 
least  dangerous  course  left  to  a government  is  to  form  that 
class  into  a standing  army.  It  is  scarcely  possible,  that 
men  can  pass  their  lives  in  the  service  of  one  state,  without 
feeling  some  interest  in  its  greatness.  Its  victories  are  their 
victories.  Its  defeats  are  their  defeats.  Tlie  contract  loses 
something  of  its  mercantile  character.  The  services  of  the 
soldier  are  considered  as  the  effects  of  patriotic  zeal,  his  pay 
as  the  tribute  of  national  gratitude.  To  betray  the  power 
which  employs  him,  to  bo  even  remiss  in  its  service,  are  in 
his  eyes  the  most  atrocious  and  degrading  of  crimes. 

When  the  princes  and  commonwealths  of  Italy  began  to 
use  hired  troops,  their  wisest  course  would  have  been  to 
form  separate  military  establishments.  Unhappily  tins  was 
not  done.  The  mercenary  warriors  of  the  Peninsula,  instead 
of  being  attached  to  the  service  of  different  powers,  were 
regarded  as  the  common  property  of  all.  The  connection 
between  the  state  and  its  defenders  was  reduced  to  the  most 
simple  and  naked  traffic.  Tlie  adventurer  brought  his  horse, 
his  weapons,  his  strength,  and  Ids  experience,  into  the  mar- 
ket. Whether  the  King  of  Naples  or  the  Duke  of  Milan, 
the  Pope  or  the  Signory  of  Florence,  struck  the  bargain, 
was  to  him  a matter  of  perfect  indifference.  He  was  for 
the  highest  wages  and  the  longest  term.  When  the  cam- 
paign for  which  he  had  contracted  was  finished,  there  was 
neither  law  nor  punctilio  to  prevent  him  from  instantly 
turning  his  arms  against  his  late  masters.  The  soldier  was 
altogether  disjoined  from  the  citizen  and  from  the  subject. 

The  natural  consequences  followed.  Left  to  the  conduct 
of  men  who  neither  loved  those  whom  they  defended,  nor 
hated  those  whom  they  opposed,  who  were  often  bound  by 
stronger  ties  to  the  army  against  which  they  fought  than 
to  the  state  which  they  served,  who  lost  by  the  termination 
of  the  conflict,  and  gained  by  its  prolongation,  war  com* 
pletely  changed  its  character.  Every  man  came  into  the 


206  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

field  of  battle  iirij)rossed  with  the  knowledge  that,  in  a few 
days,  he  might  be  taking  tlie  ]>ayof  the  jx)wer  <Mgainst  which 
he  was  then  einj)loyed,  and  lighting  by  the  side  of  liis  ene- 
mies against  liis  associates.  The  strongest  interests  and  the 
strongest  feelings  concurred  to  mitigate  the  hostility  of 
those  who  had  lately  been  brethren  in  arms,  and  who  might 
soon  be  brethren  in  arms  once  more.  Their  common  profes- 
sion was  a bond  of  union  not  to  be  forgotten  even  when  they 
were  engaged  in  the  service  of  contending  parties.  Hence 
it  was  that  operations,  languid  and  indecisive  beyond  any 
recorded  in  history,  marches,  and  countermarches,  pillag- 
ing expeditions  and  blockades,  bloodless  capitulations  and 
equally  bloodless  combats,  make  up  the  military  history  of 
Italy  during  the  course  of  nearly  tw^o  centuries.  Mighty 
armies  fight  from  sunrise  to  sunset.  A great  victory  is  won. 
Thousands  of  prisoners  are  taken  and  hardly  a life  is  lost. 
A pitclied  battle  seems  to  have  been  really  less  dangerous 
than  an  ordinary  civil  tumult. 

Courage  was  now  no  longer  necessary  even  to  the  mili- 
tary character.  Men  grew  old  in  camps,  and  acquired  the 
highest  renown  by  their  warlike  achievements,  without  be- 
ing once  required  to  face  serious  danger.  The  political  con- 
sequences are  too  well  known.  The  richest  and  most  en- 
lightened part  of  the  world  was  left  undefended  to  the  as- 
saults of  every  barbarous  invader,  to  the  brutality  of  Swit- 
zerland, the  insolence  of  France,  and  the  fierce  rapacity  of 
Arragon.  The  moral  effects  which  followed  from  this  state 
of  things  were  still  more  remarkable. 

Among  the  rude  nations  which  lay  beyond  the  Alps, 
valor  was  absolutely  indispensable.  Without  it  none  could 
be  eminent ; few  could  be  secure.  Cov/ardice  was,  there- 
fore, naturally  considered  as  the  foulest  reproach.  Among 
the  polished  Italians,  enriched  by  commerce,  governed  by 
law,  and  passionately  attached  to  literature,  every  thing  was 
done  by  superiority  of  intelligence.  Their  very  wars,  more 
pacific  than  the  peace  of  their  neighbors,  required  rather 
civil  than  military  qualifications.  Hence,  while  courage  was 
the  point  of  honor  in  other  countries,  ingenuity  became  the 
point  of  honor  in  Italy. 

Prom  these  principles  were  deduced,  by  processes  strict- 
ly analogous,  two  opposite  systems  of  fashionable  morality. 
Through  the  greater  part  of  Europe,  the  vices  which  pecu- 
liarly belong  to  timid  dis])ositions,  and  which  are  the  natu- 
ral defence  of  weakness,  fraud,  and  hypocrisy,  have  always 


MACHIAVELLI. 


207 


been  most  disreputable.  On  the  other  hand,  the  excesses  of 
haughty  and  daring  spirits  have  been  treated  with  indul- 
gence, and  even  with  respect.  The  Italians  regarded  with 
corresponding  lenity  those  crimes  wdiich  require  self-com- 
mand, address,  quick  observation,  fertile  invention,  and  pro- 
found knowledge  of  human  nature. 

Such  a prince  as  our  Henry  the  Fifth  would  have  been 
the  idol  of  the  North.  The  follies  of  his  youth,  the  selfish 
ambition  of  his  manhood,  the  Lollards  roasted  at  slow  fires, 
the  prisoners  massacred  on  the  field  of  battle,  the  expiring 
lease  of  priestcraft  renewed  for  another  century,  the  dreadful 
legacy  of  a causeless  and  hopeless  war  bequeathed  to  a people 
who  had  no  interest  in  its  event,  everything  is  forgotten  but 
the  victory  of  Agincourt.  Francis  Sforza,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  the  model  of  Italian  heroes.  He  made  his  employers 
and  his  rivals  alike  his  tools.  He  first  overpowered  his  open 
enemies  by  the  help  of  faithless  allies  ; he  then  armed  him- 
self against  his  allies  with  the  spoils  taken  from  his  enemies. 
By  his  incomparable  dexterity,  he  raised  himself  from  the 
precarious  and  dependent  situation  of  a military  adventurer 
to  the  first  throne  of  Italy.  To  such  a man  much  was  for- 
given, hollow  friendship,  ungenerous  enmity,  violated  faith. 
Such  are  the  opposite  errors  which  men  commit,  when  their 
morality  is  not  a science  but  a taste,  when  they  abandon 
eternal  principles  for  accidental  associations. 

We  have  illustrated  our  meaning  by  an  instance  taken 
from  history.  We  will  select  another  from  fiction.  Othello 
murders  his  wife  ; he  gives  orders  for  the  murder  of  his 
lieutenant;  he  ends  by  murdering  himself.  Yet  he  never 
loses  the  esteem  and  affection  of  Northern  readers.  His  in- 
trepid and  ardent  spirit  redeems  every  thing.  The  unsus- 
pecting confidence  with  which  he  listens  to  his  adviser,  the 
agony  with  which  he  shrinks  from  the  thought  of  shame, 
the  tempest  of  passion  wdth  wLich  he  commits  his  crimes, 
and  the  haughty  fearlessness  wdth  wLich  he  avows  them, 
give  an  extraordinary  interest  to  his  character.  lago,  on 
the  contrary,  is  the  object  of  universal  loathing.  Many  are 
inclined  to  suspect  that  Shakspeare  has  been  seduced  into 
an  exaggeration  unusual  with  him,  and  has  drawn  a monster 
wdio  has  no  archetype  in  human  nature.  Now  w^e  suspect 
that  an  Italian  audience  in  the  fifteenth  century  w^ould  have 
felt  very  differently.  Othello  would  have  inspired  nothing 
but  detestation  and  contempt.  The  folly  wdtli  W’hich  he 
trusts  the  friendly  professions  of  a man  wiiose  promotion  he 


208 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  ^vkitings. 


had  obstructed,  tlie  credulity  witli  wliich  lie  lakes  unsup- 
ported assertions,  and  trivial  circumstances,  for  unanswer- 
able proofs,  the  violence  with  which  he  silences  the  exculjia^ 
tion  till  tlie  exculpation  can  only  aggravate  his  misery,  would 
have  excited  the  abhorrence  and  disgust  of  the  sj)Cctators. 
The  conduct  of  lago  they  would  assuredly  have  condemned  ; 
but  they  would  have  condemned  it  as  we  condemn  that  of 
his  victim.  Something  of  interest  and  respect  would  liave 
mingled  with  their  disapprobation.  The  readiness  of  the 
traitor’s  wit,  the  clearness  of  liis  judgment,  the  skill  witli 
which  he  penetrates  the  disj)ositions  of  others  and  conceals 
his  own,  would  have  insured  to  him  a certain  portion  of 
their  esteem. 

So  Avide  Avas  the  difference  betAveen  the  Italians  and  their 
neighbors.  A similar  difference  existed  betAveen  the  Greeks 
of  the  second  century  before  Christ,  and  their  masters  the 
Romans.  The  conquerors,  brave  and  resolute,  faithful  to 
their  engagements,  and  strongly  influenced  by  religious 
feelings,  were,  at  the  same  time,  ignorant,  arbitrary,  and 
cruel.  With  the  A^anquished  people  Avere  deposited  all  the 
art,  the  science,  and  the  literature  of  tlie  Western  world. 
In  poetry,  in  philosojihy,  in  painting,  in  architecture,  in 
sculpture,  they  had  no  rivals.  Their  manners  Avere  polished, 
their  perceptions  acute,  their  invention  ready ; they  were 
tolerant,  affable,  humane  ; but  of  courage  and  sincerity  they 
were  almost  utterly  destitute.  EA^ery  rude  centurion  con- 
soled himself  for  his  intellectual  inferiority,  by  remarking 
that  knowledge  and  taste  seemed  only  to  make  men  atheists, 
cowards,  and  slaA^es.  The  distinction  long  continued  to  bo 
strongly  marked,  and  furnished  an  admirable  subject  for  the 
fierce  sarcasms  of  JuA^enal. 

The  citizen  of  an  Italian  commonwealth  AA^as  the  Greek 
of  the  time  of  JuA^enal  and  the  Greek  of  the  time  of  Peri- 
cles, joined  in  one.  Like  the  former,  he  was  timid  and  plia- 
ble, artful  and  mean.  But,  like  the  latter,  he  had  a country. 
Its  independence  and  prosperity  Avere  dear  to  him.  If  nis 
character  were  degraded  by  some  base  crimes,  it  Avas,  on 
the  other  hand,  ennobled  by  public  s|:)irit  and  by  an  honor 
able  ambition. 

A Auce  sanctioned  by  the  general  opinion  is  merely  a 
vice.  The  eAul  terminates  in  itself.  A vice  condemned  by 
the  geiieral  opinion  produces  a pernicious  effect  on  the 
Avhole  character.  The  former  is  a local  malady,  the  latter  a 
constitutional  taint.  When  the  reputation  of  the  offender 
h lost,  he  too  often  the  remains  of  his  virtno  after  it 


MACHIAVELLl. 


209 


in  despair.  The  Iliglilaiid  gentleman  who,  a century  ago, 
lived  by  taking  black  mail  from  his  neighbors,  committed 
the  same  crime  for  which  Wild  was  accompanied  to  Tyburn 
by  the  huzzas  of  two  hundred  thousand  peoj)le.  But  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  a much  less  dc})raved  man  than 
Wild.  The  deed  for  which  Jlrs.  Brownrigg  was  hanged 
sinks  into  nothing,  when  compared  with  the  conduct  of  the 
J tomans  who  treated  the  public  to  a hundred  pair  of  gladia- 
tors. Yet  we  should  greatly  Avrong  such  a Roman  if  wo 
supposed  that  his  disposition  Avas  as  cruel  as  that  of  Mrs. 
BroAvnrigg.  In  our  OAvn  country,  a Avoman  forfeits  her 
place  in  society  by  what,  in  a man,  is  too  commonly  consid- 
ered as  an  honorable  distinction,  and,  at  Avorst,  as  a venial 
error.  The  consequence  is  notorious.  The  moral  princi- 
ple of  a woman  is  frequently  more  impaired  by  a single  lapse 
from  virtue  than  that  of  a man  by  tAA^enty  years  of  intrigues. 
Classical  antiquity  Avould  furnish  us  Avith  instances  stronger, 
if  possible,  than  those  to  Avhich  Ave  have  referred. 

We  must  apply  this  principle  to  the  case  before  us. 
Habits  of  dissimulation  and  falsehood,  no  doubt,  mark  a 
man  of  our  age  and  country  as  utterly  Avorthless  and  aban- 
doned. But  it  by  no  means  folloAVS  that  a similar  judgment 
Avould  be  just  in  the  case  of  an  Italian  in  the  middle  ages. 
On  the  contrary,  Ave  frequently  find  those  faults  Avhich  Ave 
are  accustomed  to  consider  as  certain  indications  of  a mind 
altogether  depraved,  in  company  Avith  great  and  good  quali- 
ties, with  generosity,  Avith  bencA^olence,  Avith  disinterested- 
ness. From  such  a state  of  society,  Palamedes,  in  the 
admirable  dialogue  of  Hume,  might  haA'e  draAvn  illustrations 
of  his  theory  as  striking  as  any  of  those  Avith  Avhich  Fourli 
furnished  liim.  These  arc  not,  avc  avcII  knoAV,  the  lessons 
whh^h  historians  are  generally  most  careful  to  teach,  or 
readers  most  willing  to  learn.  But  they  are  not  therefore 
useless.  How  Philip  disposed  his  troops  at  Chaeronea, 
where  Hannibal  crossed  the  Alps,  Avhether  Mary  blew  up 
Darnley,  or  Siquier  shot  Charles  the  Twelfth,  and  ten  thou- 
sand other  questions  of  the  same  description,  are  in  them- 
selves unimportant.  The  inquiry  may  amuse  us,  but  the 
decision  leaA^es  us  no  wiser.  He  alone  reads  history  aright 
Avho,  observing  hoAV  poAverfully  circumstances  influence  the 
feelings  and  opinions  of  men,  how  often  vices  pass  into  vir- 
tues and  paradoxes  into  axioms,  learns  to  distinguish  what 
is  accidental  and  transitory  in  humau  nature  from  what  is 
ejgsential  and  immutable. 


210 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


In  this  respect  no  history  suggests  more  important  re- 
flections than  that  of  the  Tuscan  and  Lombard  common- 
wealths. The  character  of  tlie  Italian  statesmen  seems,  at 
first  sight,  a collection  of  contradictions,  a phantom  as  mon- 
strous as  the  portress  of  hell  in  Milton,  half  divinity,  half 
snake,  majestic  and  beautiful  above,  grovelling  and  poison- 
ous below.  We  see  a man  whose  thoughts  and  words  have 
no  connection  with  each  other,  who  never  hesitates  at  an 
oath  when  he  wishes  to  seduce,  who  never  wants  a pretext 
when  he  is  inclined  to  betray.  His  cruelties  spring,  not 
from  the  heat  of  blood,  or  the  insanity  of  uncontrolled  power, 
but  from  deep  and  cool  meditation.  His  passions,  like  well- 
trained  troops,  are  impetuous  by  rule,  and  in  their  most 
headstrong  fury  never  forget  the  discipline  to  which  they 
have  been  accustomed.  His  Avhole  soul  is  occupied  with 
vast  and  complicated  schemes  of  ambition : yet  his  aspect 
and  language  exhibit  nothing  but  philosophical  moderation. 
Hatred  and  revenge  eat  into  his  heart : yet  every  look  is  a 
cordial  smile,  every  gesture  a familiar  caress.  He  never 
excites  the  suspicion  of  his  adversaries  by  petty  provica- 
tions.  His  purpose  is  disclosed  only  when  it  is  accomplished. 
His  face  is  unruffled,  his  speech  is  courteous,  till  vigilance 
is  laid  asleep,  till  a vital  point  is  exposed,  till  a sure  aim  is 
taken  ; and  then  he  strikes  for  the  first  and  last  time.  Mili- 
tary courage,  the  boast  of  the  sottish  German,  of  the  frivo- 
lous and  prating  Frenchman,  of  the  romantic  and  arrogant 
Spaniard,  he  neither  possesses  nor  values.  He  shuns  danger, 
not  because  he  is  insensible  to  shame,  but  because,  in  the 
society  in  which  he  lives,  timidity  has  ceased  to  be  shameful. 
To  do  an  injury  openly  is,  in  his  estimation,  as  wicked  as  to 
do  it  secretly,  and  far  less  profitable.  With  him  the  most 
honorable  means  are  those  which  are  the  surest,  the  speed- 
iest, and  the  darkest.  He  cannot  comprehend  how  a man 
should  scruple  to  deceive  those  whom  he  does  not  scruple  to 
destroy.  He  would  think  it  madness  to  declare  open  hos- 
tihties  against  rivals  whom  he  might  stab  in  a friendly  em 
brace,  or  poison  in  a consecrated  wafer. 

Yet  this  man,  black  with  the  vices  which  we  considei 
as  most  loathsome,  traitor,  hypocrite,  coward,  assassin,  was 
by  no  means  destitute  even  of  those  virtues  which  we  gen* 
erally  consider  as  indicating  superior  elevation  of  character 
In  civil  courage,  in  perserverancc,  in  presence  of  mind,  those 
barbarous  warriors,  who  were  foremost  in  the  battle  or  the 
breach,  were  far  his  inferiors.  Even  the  dangers  which  he 


MACniAVKLLl. 


211 


avoided  with  a caution  almost  pusillanimous  nev  »r  confused 
his  perceptions,  never  paralyzed  his  inventive  faculties, 
never  wrung  out  one  secret  from  his  smooth  tongue,  and  his 
inscrutable  brow.  Though  a dangerous  enemy,  and  a still 
more  dangerous  accomplice,  he  could  be  a just  and  benef- 
icent ruler.  With  so  much  unfairness  in  his  policy,  there 
was  an  extraordinary  degree  of  fairness  in  his  intellect. 
Indifferent  to  truth  in  the  transactions  of  life,  he  was  hou^ 
estly  devoted  to  truth  in  the  researches  of  speculation. 
Wanton  cruelty  was  not  in  his  nature.  On  the  contrary, 
where  no  political  object  was  at  stake,  his  disposition  was 
soft  and  humane.  The  susceptibility  of  his  nerves  and  the 
activity  of  his  imagination  inclined  him  to  sympathize  with 
the  feelings  of  others,  and  to  delight  in  the  charities  and 
courtesies  of  social  life.  Perpetually  descending  to  actions 
which  might  seem  to  mark  a mind  diseased  through  all  its 
faculties,  he  had  nevertheless  an  exquisite  sensibility,  both 
for  the  natural  and  the  moral  sublime,  for  every  graceful 
and  every  lofty  conception.  Habits  of  petty  intrigue  and 
dissimulation  might  have  rendered  him  incapable  of  great 
general  views,  but  that  the  expanding  effect  of  his  philosoph- 
ical studies  counteracted  the  narrowing  tendency.  He  had 
the  keenest  enjoyment  of  wit,  eloquence,  and  poetry.  The 
fine  arts  profited  alike  by  the  severity  of  his  judgment,  and 
by  the  liberality  of  his  patronage.  The  portraits  of  some 
of  the  remarkable  Italians  of  those  times  are  perfectly  in 
harmony  with  this  description.  Ample  and  majestic  fore- 
heads, brows  strong  and  dark,  but  not  frowning,  eyes  of 
wliich  the  calm  full  gaze,  while  it  expresses  nothing,  seems 
to  discern  every  thing,  cheeks  pale  with  thought  and  seden- 
tary habits,  lips  formed  with  feminine  delicacy,  but  com- 
pressed with  more  than  masculine  decision,  mark  out  men 
at  once  enterprising  and  timid,  men  equally  skilled  in  de- 
tecting the  purposes  of  others,  and  in  concealing  their  own, 
men  who  must  have  been  formidable  enemies  and  unsafe 
allies,  but  men,  at  the  same  time,  whose  tempers  were  mild 
and  equable,  and  who  possessed  an  amplitude  and  subtlety 
of  intellect  which  would  have  rendered  them  eminent  either 
in  active  or  in  contemplative  life,  and  fitted  them  either  to 
govern  or  to  instruct  mankind. 

Every  age  and  every  nation  has  certain  characteristic 
vices,  which  prevail  almost  universally,  which  scarcely  any 
person  scruples  to  avow,  and  which  even  rigid  moralists 
but  faintly  censure.  Succeeding  generations  change  the 


212  Macaulay’s  MisctiLLANUous  whitings. 

fashion  of  tlieir  morals,  with  tho  fasliion  of  thoir  hats  and 
their  coaches;  take  some  other  kind  of  wickedness  under 
their  patronage,  and  wonder  at  tlic  depravity  of  their  ances- 
tors. Nor  is  this  all.  Posterity,  that  high  court  of  aj)peal 
which  is  never  tired  of  eulogizing  its  own  justice  and  dis- 
cernment, acts  on  such  occasions  like  a Roman  dictator 
after  a general  mutiny.  Finding  the  delinquents  too  nu- 
merous to  be  all  punished,  it  selects  some  of  them  at  hazard, 
to  bear  the  whole  penalty  of  an  offence  in  which  they  are  not 
more  deeply  implicated  than  those  who  escape.  Whether 
decimation  be  a convenient  mode  of  military  execution,  we 
know  not ; but  we  solemnly  protest  against  the  introduction 
of  such  a principle  into  the  philosophy  of  history. 

In  tlie  present  instance,  the  lot  has  fallen  on  MachiavellL, 
a man  whose  public  conduct  was  upright  and  honorable, 
whose  views  of  morality,  where  they  differed  from  those  of 
the  persons  around  him,  seemed  to  have  differed  for  t)\« 
better,  and  whose  only  fault  was,  that,  having  adopted  som<» 
of  the  maxims  then  generally  received,  he  arranged  them 
more  luminously,  and  expressed  them  more  forcibly,  thaw 
any  other  writer. 

Having  now,  we  hope,  in  some  degree  cleared  the  per- 
sonal character  of  Machiavelli,  we  come  to  the  consideratioi^ 
of  his  works.  As  a poet  he  is  not  entitled  to  a high  place 
but  his  comedies  deserve  attention. 

The  Mandragola,  in  particular,  is  superior  to  the  best  o)' 
Goldoni,  and  inferior  only  to  the  best  of  Moliere.  It  is  th* 
work  of  a man  who,  if  he  had  devoted  himself  to  the  drama 
would  probably  have  attained  the  highest  eminence,  and  pro- 
duced a permanent  and  salutary  effect  on  the  national  taste. 
This  we  infer,  not  so  much  from  the  degree,  as  from  the  kind 
of  its  excellence.  There  are  compositions  which  indicate 
still  greater  talent,  and  which  are  perused  with  still  greatei 
delight,  from  which  we  should  have  drawn  very  different 
conclusions.  Books  quite  worthless  are  quite  harmless.  The 
sure  sign  of  the  general  decline  of  an  art  is  the  frequent 
occurrence,  not  of  deformity,  but  of  misplaced  beauty.  In 
general.  Tragedy  is  corrupted  by  eloquence,  and  Comedy 
by  wit. 

The  real  object  of  the  drama  is  the  exhibition  of  human 
character.  This,  we  conceive,  is  no  arbitrary  canon,  orig- 
inating in  local  and  temporary  associations,  like  those  canons 
which  regulate  the  number  of  acts  in  a play,  or  of  syllables 
m a Ime,  To  this  fundamental  law  every  other  regulation 


Maciiiavelli. 


213 


is  subonlinate.  Tlie  situations  which  most  signally  develop 
character  form  t he  best  plot.  The  mother  tongue  of  the  [>as- 
siOMS  is  tlie  best  style. 

This  ])riu(*ij)le,  rightly  understood,  does  not  debar  the 
poet  from  any  grace  of  composition.  There  is  no  style  in 
Vv  liich  some  man  may  not,  under  some  circumstances,  express 
himsel^>  There  is  therefore  no  style  which  the  drama  rejects, 
none  which  it  does  not  occasionally  require.  It  is  in  the  dis* 
ceriiment  of  })lace,  of  time,  and  of  person,  that  the  inferioi 
artists  fail.  The  fantastic  rhapsody  of  Mercutio,  the  elab« 
orate  declamation  of  Antony,  are,  where  Shakspeare  has 
placed  them,  natural  and  pleasing.  But  Dryden  would 
have  made  Mercutio  challenge  Tybalt  in  hyperboles  as  fanci 
ful  as  those  in  which  he  describes  the  chariot  of  Mab.  Cor- 
neille would  have  represented  Antony  as  scolding  and  coax- 
ing Cleopatra  with  all  the  measured  rhetoric  of  a funeral 
oration. 

No  writers  have  injured  the  Comedy  of  England  so 
deeply  as  Congreve  and  Sheridan.  Both  were  men  of  splen- 
did wit  and  ])olished  taste.  Unhappily,  they  made  all  their 
characters  in  their  own  likeness.  Their  works  bear  the 
same  relation  to  the  legitimate  drama,  which  a transparency 
bears  to  a painting.  There  are  no  delicate  touches,  no  hues 
imperceptibly  fading  into  each  other:  the  whole  is  lighted 
up  with  an  universal  glare.  Outlines  and  tints  are  forgot- 
ten in  the  common  blaze  which  illuminates  all.  The  flow- 
ers and  fruits  of  the  intellect  abound ; but  it  is  the  abun- 
dance of  a jungle,  not  of  a garden,  unwholesome,  bewildering, 
'profitable  from  its  very  plenty,  rank  from  its  very  fra- 
grance. jLvery  fop,  every  boor,  every  valet,  is  a man  of 
wit.  The  very  butts  and  dupes.  Tattle,  Witwould,  Puff, 
Acres,  outshine  the  whole  Hotel  of  Rambouillet.  To  prove 
the  whole  system  of  this  school  erroneous,  it  is  only  ne- 
cessary to  apply  the  test  which  dissolved  the  enchanted 
Florimel,  to  place  the  true  by  the  false  Thalia,  to  contrast 
the  most  clebrated  characters  which  have  been  drawn  by  the 
writers  of  whom  we  speak  with  the  Bastard  in  King  John, 
or  the  Nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet.  It  was  not  surely  from 
want  of  wit  that  Shakspeare  adopted  so  different  a manner. 
Benedick  and  Beatrice  throw  Mirabel  and  Millamant  into 
the  shade.  All  the  good  sayings  of  the  facetious  houses  of 
Absolute  and  Surface  might  have  been  clipped  from  the 
rmgle  character  of  Falstaff  without  being  missed.  It  would 
have  been  easy  for  that  fertile  mind  to  have  given  Bardolph 


214 


MACAULAY MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  Shallow  ns  much  wit  as  Prince  ITal,  and  to  have  made 
Dogberry  and  Verges  retort  on  each  other  in  sparkling 
epigrams.  Ibit  he  knew  that  such  indiscriminate  prodigality 
was,  to  use  his  own  admirable  language,  “from  the  purpose 
of  playing,  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was,  and  is, 
to  hold,  as  it  were,  the  mirror  up  to  Nature.” 

This  digression  will  enable  our  readers  to  understand 
what  we  mean  when  we  say  that  in  the  Mandragola,  Machi- 
avelli  has  proved  that  he  completely  understood  the  nature 
of  the  dramatic  art,  and  possessed  talents  which  would  have 
enabled  him  to  excel  in  it.  By  the  correct  and  vigorous 
delineation  of  human  nature,  it  produces  interest  without 
a pleasing  or  skilful  plot,  and  laughter  without  the  least  am- 
bition of  wit.  The  lover,  not  a very  delicate  or  generous 
loi  er,  and  his  adviser  the  parasite,  are  drawn  with  spirit. 
The  hypocritical  confessor  is  an  admirable  portrait.  He  is, 
if  we  mistake  not,  the  original  of  Father  Dominic,  the  best 
comic  character  of  Dryden.  But  old  Nicias  is  the  glory  of 
the  piece.  We  cannot  call  to  mind  any  thing  tlftit  resembles 
him.  The  follies  which  Moli^re  ridicules  are  those  of  affec- 
tation, not  those  of  fatuity.  Coxcombs  and  pedants,  not  ab- 
solute simpletons,  are  his  game.  Shakspeare  has  indeed  a 
vast  assortment  of  fools  ; but  the  precise  species  of  which 
we  speak  is  not,  if  we  remember  right,  to  be  found  there. 
Shallow  is  a fool.  But  his  animal  spirits  supply,  to  a certain 
degree,  the  place  of  cleverness.  His  talk  is  to  that  of  Sir 
John  what  soda  water  is  to  champagne.  It  has  the  efferves- 
cence though  not  the  body  or  the  flavor.  Slender  and  Sir 
Andrew  Aguecheek  are  fools,  troubled  with  an  uneasy  con- 
sciousness of  their  folly,  which,  in  the  latter  produces  meek- 
ness and  docility,  and  in  the  former,  awkwardness,  obstinacy, 
and  confusion.  Cloten  is  an  arrogant  fool,  Osric  a foppish 
fool,  Ajax  a savage  fool ; but  Nicias  is,  as  Thersites  says  of 
Patroclus,  a fool  positive.  His  mind  is  occupied  by  no  strong 
feeling ; it  takes  every  character,  and  retains  none ; its  aspect 
is  diversified,  not  by  passions,  but  by  faint  and  transitory 
semblances  of  passion,  a mock  joy,  a mock  fear,  a mock  love, 
a mock  pride,  which  chase  each  other  like  shadows  over  its 
surface,  and  vanish  as  soon  as  they  appear.  He  is  just  idiot 
enough  to  be  an  object,  not  of  pHy  or  horror,  but  of  ridicule. 
He  bears  some  resemblance  to  ] oor  Calandrino,  whose  mis- 
haps, as  recounted  by  Boccaccio,  have  made  all  Europe 
merry  for  more  than  four  centuries.  He  perhaps  resembles 
still  more  closely  Simon  da  Villa,  to  whom  Bruno  and  Buf 


MACHIAVELLI. 


215 


almacco  promised  the  love  of  the  Countess  Civillari.  Nicias 
is,  like  Simon,  of  a learned  profession  ; and  the  dignity  with 
which  he  wears  the  doctoral  fur,  renders  his  absurdities 
infinitely  more  grotesque.  The  old  Tuscan  is  the  very  lan- 
guage for  such  a being.  Its  peculiar  simplicity  gives  even 
to  the  most  forcible  reasoning  and  the  most  brilliant  wit  an 
infantine  air,  generally  delightful,  but  to  a foreign  reader 
sometimes  a little  ludicrous.  Heroes  and  statesmen  seem  to 
lisp  when  they  use  it.  It  becomes  Nicias  incomparably,  and 
renders  all  his  silliness  infinitely  more  silly. 

We  may  add,  that  the  verses  with  which  the  Mandragola 
is  interspersed,  appear  to  us  to  be  the  most  spirited  and 
correct  of  all  that  Machiavelli  his  written  in  metre.  He 
seems  to  have  entertained  the  same  opinion  ; for  he  has  in- 
troduced some  of  them  in  other  places.  The  contemporaries 
of  the  author  were  not  blind  to  the  merits  of  this  striking 
piece.  It  was  acted  at  Florence  with  the  greatest  success. 
Leo  the  Tenth  was  among  its  admirers,  and  by  his  order  it 
was  represented  at  Rome.^ 

The  Clizia  is  an  imitation  of  the  Casina  of  Plautus,  which  is 
itself  an  imitation  of  the  lost  xXrjpoufiivot  of  Diphilus.  Plau- 
tus was,  unquestionably,  one  of  the  best  Latin  writers  ; but 
the  Casina  is  by  no  means  one  of  his  best  plays  ; nor  is  it 
one  which  offers  great  facilities  to  an  imitator.  The  story 
is  as  alien  from  modern  habits  of  life,  as  the  manner  in 
which  it  is  developed  from  the  modern  fashion  of  compo- 
sition. The  lover  remains  in  the  country  and  the  heroine  in 
her  chamber  during  the  whole  action,  leaving  their  fate  to  be 
decided  by  a foolish  father,  a cunning  mother  and  two  knavish 
servants.  Machiavelli  has  executed  his  task  with  judgment 
and  taste.  He  has  accommodated  the  plot  to  a different 
state  of  society,  and  has  very  dexterously  connected  it  with 
the  history  of  his  own  times.  The  relation  of  the  trick  put 
on  the  doting  old  lover  is  exquisitely  humorous  It  is  far 
superior  to  the  corresponding  passage  in  the  Latin  comedy, 
and  scarcely  yields  to  the  account  which  Falstaff  gives  of 
his  ducking. 

Two  other  comedies  without  titles,  the  one  in  prose,  the 
other  in  verse,  appear  among  the  works  of  Machiavelli.  The 
former  is  very  short,  lively  enough,  but  of  no  great  value. 
The  latter  we  can  scarcely  believe  to  be  genuine.  Neither 

♦ Nothing  can  be  more  evident  than  that  Paulus  Jovius  designates  the  Man- 
dragola under  the  name  of  the  Nicias.  We  should  not  have  noticed  what  is  so 
perfectly  obvious,  were  it  not  that  this  natural  and  palpable  misnomer  has  led  the 
sagacious  and  inaustrious  Bayle  into  a gross  error* 


216 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


its  merits  nor  its  defects  remind  us  of  tlic  rei)uted  author.  It 
was  first  ])riiited  in  1796,  from  a manuscri|)t  discovered  in 
the  celebrated  library  of  the  Strozzi.  Its  genuineness,  if  we 
have  been  rightly  informed,  is  established  soh'ly  by  the 
comparison  of  hands.  Our  susj)icions  are  strengthened  by 
the  circumstance,  that  the  same  manuscrij)t  contained  a 
description  of  the  plague  of  1527,  which  has  also,  in  con- 
sequence, been  added  to  the  works  of  Machiavelli.  Of  tliis 
last  composition,  the  strongest  external  evidc!icc  would 
scarcely  induce  us  to  believe  him  guilty.  Nothing  Avas  ever 
written  more  detestable  in  matter  and  manner.  The  nar- 
rations, the  reflections,  the  jokes,  the  lamentations,  are  all 
the  very  worst  of  their  respective  kinds,  at  once  trite  and 
affected,  threadbare  tinsel  from  the  Rag  Fairs  and  Monmouth 
Streets  of  literature.  A foolisli  schoolboy  might  write  such 
a piece,  and,  after  he  had  written  it  think  it  much  finer  than 
the  incomparable  introduction  of  the  Decameron.  But  that 
a shrewd  statesman,  Avhose  earliest  works  are  characterized 
by  manliness  of  thought  and  language,  should,  at  near  sixty 
years  of  age,  descend  to  such  puerility,  is  utterly  incon- 
ceivable. 

The  little  novel  of  Belphegor  is  pleasantly  conceived,  and 
pleasantly  told.  But  the  extravagance  of  the  satire  in  some 
measure  injures  its  effect.  Machiavelli  was  unhappily  mar- 
ried ; and  his  wish  to  avenge  his  own  cause  and  that  of  his 
bretlii’en  in  misfortune,  carried  him  beyond  even  the  license 
of  fiction.  Jonson  seems  to  have  combined  some  hints  taken 
from  this  tale,  Avith  others  from  Boccaccio,  in  the  plot  of  The 
Devil  is  an  Ass,  a play  which,  though  not  the  most  highly  fin- 
ished of  his  compositions,  is  perhaps  that  Avhich  exhibits  the 
strongest  proofs  of  genius. 

The  political  correspondence  of  MachiaA^elli,  first  pub- 
lished in  1767,  is  unquestionably  genuine,  and  highly  valuable. 
The  unhappy  circumstances  in  Avhich  his  country  was  placed 
during  the  greater  part  of  his  public  life  gave  extraordinary 
encouragement  to  diplomatic  talents.  From  the  moment  that 
Charles  the  Eighth  descended  from  the  Alps,  the  Avhole  char- 
acter of  Italian  politics  was  changed.  The  gOA^ernments  of 
the  Peninsula  ceased  to  form  an  independent  system.  Drawn 
from  their  old  orbit  by  the  attraction  of  the  larger  bodies 
Avdiich  now  approached  them,  they  bcame  mere  satellites  of 
France  and  Spain.  All  their  disputes,  internal  and  external, 
were  decided  by  foreign  influence.  The  contests  of  opposite 
factions  were  carried  on,  not  as  formerly  in  the  senate-house 


MACniAVELLI. 


217 


or  in  the  market-place,  but  in  the  ante-chambers  of  Louis  and 
Ferdinand.  Under  these  circumstances,  tlie  j)rosperity  of  the 
Italian  States  depended  far  more  on  the  ability  of  their  foreign 
agents  than  on  the  conduct  of  those  who  were  intrusted  with 
the  domestic  administT  ation.  The  ambassador  had  to  dis- 
charge functions  far  more  delicate  than  transmitting  orders  of 
knighthood,  introducing  tourists,  or  presenting  his  brethren 
with  the  homage  of  his  high  consideration.  He  was  an  advo- 
cate to  whose  management  the  dearest  interests  of  his  clients 
were  intrusted,  a spy  clothed  with  an  inviolable  character.  In- 
stead of  consulting,  by  a reserved  manner  and  ambiguous  style, 
the  dignity  of  those  whom  he  represented,  he  was  to  plunge 
into  all  the  intrigues  of  the  court  at  which  he  resided,  to  dis- 
cover and  flatter  every  weakness  of  the  prince,  and  of  the 
favorite  who  governed  the  prince,  and  of  the  lacquey  who 
governed  the  favorite.  He  was  to  compliment  the  mistress 
and  bribe  the  confessor,  to.  panegyrize  or  supplicate,  to  laugh 
or  weep,  to  accommodate  himself  to  every  caprice,  to  lull 
every  suspicion,  to  treasure  every  hint,  to  be  every  thing,  to 
observe  every  thing,  to  endure  every  thing.  High  as  the  art 
of  political  intrigue  had  been  carried  in  Italy,  these  were 
times  which  required  it  all. 

On  tliese  arduous  errands  Machiavelli  was  frequently 
employed.  He  was  sent  to  treat  with  the  King  of  the  Romans 
and  with  the  Duke  of  Valentinois.  He  was  twice  ambassador 
at  the  Court  of  Rome,  and  thrice  at  that  of  France.  In  these 
missions,  and  in  several  others  of  inferior  importance,  he 
acquitted  himself  with  great  dexterity.  His  despatches  form 
one  of  the  most  amusing  and  instructive  collections  extant. 
The  narratives  are  clear  and  agreeably  written  ; the  remarks 
on  men  and  things  clever  and  judicious.  The  conversations 
are  reported  in  a spirited  and  characteristic  manner.  We 
find  ourselves  introduced  into  the  presence  of  the  men  who, 
during  twenty  eventful  years,  swayed  the  destinies  of 
Europe.  Their  Avit  and  their  folly,  their  fretfulness  and 
their  merriment,  are  exposed  to  us.  We  are  admitted  to 
overhear  their  chat,  and  to  watch  their  familiar  gestures. 
It  is  interesting  and  curious  to  recognize,  in  circumstances 
which  elude  the  notice  of  historians,  the  feeble  violence  and 
shallow  cunning  of  Louis  the  Twelfth  ; the  bustling  insignifi- 
cance of  Maximilian,  cursed  with  an  impotent  pruriency  for 
renown,  rash  yet  timid,  obstinate  yet  fickle,  always  in  a hurry, 
yet  always  too  late  ; the  fierce  and  haughty  energy  which 
gave  dignity  to  the  eccentricities  of  Julius;  the  soft  and 


‘218 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


graceful  maimers  wliich  masked  tlie  insatiable  ambition  and 
the  im])lacable  liatred  of  Ca3sar  Borgia. 

We  have  mentioned  Cicsar  Borgia.  It  is  impossible  not 
to  pause  for  a moment  on  the  name  of  a man  in  whom  the 
political  morality  of  Italy  was  so  strongly  personified,  par 
tially  blended  with  the  sterner  lineaments  of  the  Spanish 
character.  On  two  important  occasions  Machiavelli  was 
admitted  to  his  society ; once,  at  the  moment  when  Caesar’s 
cplendid  villainy  achieved  its  most  signal  triumj)h,  when  he 
caught  in  one  snare  and  crushed  at  one  blow  all  his  most 
formidable  rivals;  and  again  when,  exhausted  by  disease  and 
overwhelmed  by  misfortunes,  which  no  human  prudence 
could  have  averted,  he  was  the  prisoner  of  the  deadliest  enemy 
of  his  house.  These  interviews  between  the  greatest  specu- 
latives  and  the  greatest  practical  statesmen  of  the  age  arc 
fully  described  in  the  Correspondence,  and  form  perhaps  the 
most  interesting  part  of  it.  From  some  passages  in  The 
I’rince,  and  perhaps  also  from  some  indistinct  traditions, 
several  writers  have  supposed  a connection  between  those 
remarkable  men  much  closer  than  ever  existed.  The  Envoy 
has  even  been  accused  of  prompting  the  crimes  of  the  artful 
and  merciless  tyrant.  But  from  the  official  documents  it  is 
clear  that  their  intercourse,  though  ostensibly  amicable,  was 
in  reality  hostile.  It  cannot  be  doubted,  however,  that  the 
imagination  of  Machiavelli  was  strongly  impressed,  and  his 
speculations  on  government  colored,  by  the  observations 
wdiich  he  made  on  the  singular  character  and  equally  singular 
fortunes  of  a man  who  under  such  disadvantages  had  achieved 
such  exploits ; who,  when  sensuality,  varied  through  innu- 
merable forms,  could  no  longer  stimulate  his  sated  mind, 
found  a more  powerful  and  durable  excitement  in  the  intense 
thirst  of  empire  and  revenge  ; who  emerged  from  the  sloth 
and  luxury  of  the  Homan  puiqdc  the  first  prince  and  general 
of  the  age ; who,  trained  in  an  un warlike  profession,  formed 
a gallant  army  out  of  the  dregs  of  an  unwarlike  people ; who, 
after  acquiring  sovereignty  by  destroying  his  enemies,  ac- 
quired popularity  by  destroying  his  tools ; who  had  begun  to 
employ  for  the  most  salutary  ends  the  power  which  he  had 
attained  by  the  most  atrocious  means ; who  tolerated  within 
the  sphere  of  his  iron  despotism  no  plunderer  or  oppressor 
but  himself ; and  who  fell  at  last  amidst  the  mingled  curses 
and  regrets  of  a people  of  whom  his  genius  had  been  the 
wonder,  and  might  have  been  the  salvation.  Some  of  those 
crimes  of  Borgia  which  to  us  appear  the  most  odious  would 


MACniAVELLI. 


219 


not,  from  causes  which  we  have  already  considered,  have 
struck  an  Italian  of  the  fifteenth  century  with  equal  horror 
Patriotic  feeling  also  might  induce  Machiavelli  to  look  with 
some  indulgence  and  regret  on  the  memory  of  the  only  leader 
who  could  have  defended  the  indepen  lence  of  Italy  against 
the  confederate  spoilers  of  Cambray. 

On  this  subject  Machiavelli  felt  most  strongly.  Indeed 
the  expulsion  of  the  foreign  tyrants,  and  the  restoration  of 
that  golden  age  which  had  preceded  the  irruption  of  Charles 
the  Eighth,  were  projects  which,  at  that  time,  fascinated  all 
the  master-spirits  of  Italy.  The  magnificent  vision  delighted 
the  great  but  ill-regulated  mind  of  J ulius.  It  divided  with 
manuscripts  and  sauces,  painters  and  falcons,  the  attention  of 
the  frivolous  Leo.  It  prompted  the  generous  treason  of 
Morone.  In  imparted  a transient  energy  to  the  feeble  mind 
and  body  of  the  last  Sforza.  It  excited  for  one  moment  an 
honest  ambition  in  the  false  heart  of  Pescara.  Ferocity  and 
insolence  were  not  among  the  vices  of  the  national  character. 
To  the  discriminating  cruelties  of  politicians,  committed  for 
great  ends  on  select  victims,  the  moral  code  of  the  Italians 
was  too  indulgent.  But  though  they  might  have  recourse 
to  barbarity  as  an  expedient,  th^y  did  not  require  it  as  a 
stimulant.  They  turned  with  loathing  from  the  atrocity  of 
the  strangers  who  seemed  to  love  blood  for  its  own  sake, 
who,  not  content  with  subjugating,  were  impatient  to  destroy, 
who  found  a fiendish  pleasure  in  razing  magnificent  cities, 
cutting  the  throats  of  enemies  w^ho  cried  for  quarter,  or 
suffocating  an  unarmed  population  by  thousands  in  the  cav- 
erns to  w'hich  it  had  fled  for  safety.  Such  were  the  cruel- 
ties which  daily  excited  th  terror  and  disgust  of  a people 
among  whom,  till  lately,  the  worst  that  a soldier  had  to 
fear  in  a pitched  battle  was  the  loss  of  his  horse  and  the  ex- 
pense of  his  ransom.  Th  swinis"  intemperance  of  Switzer- 
land, the  wolfish  avarice  of  Spain,  the  gross  licentiousness  of 
the  French,  indulged  in  viol  tion  of  hospitality,  of  decency,  ci 
love  itself,  the  wanton  inhumanity  which  was  common  to 
all  the  invaders,  had  mad  them  objects  of  deadly  hatred  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula.  The  wealth  which  had 
been  accumulated  during  centuries  of  prosperity  and  repose 
was  rapidly  melting  away.  The  intellectual  superiority  of 
the  oppressed  people  onl}  rendered  them  more  keenly  sensible 
of  their  political  degradation.  Literature  and  taste,  indeed, 
still  disguised  with  a flush  of  hectic  loveliness  and  brilliancy 
the  ravages  of  an  incurable  decay.  The  iron  had  not  yet 


220  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

entered  into  the  soul.  The  time  was  not  yet  come  wlicn 
eloquence  was  to  he  gagged,  and  reason  to  bo  lioodwinked, 
when  the  liarp  of  tlie  poet  was  to  be  liung  on  the  willows  of 
Arno,  and  the  right  hand  of  the  painter  to  forget  its  cun- 
ning. Yet  a discerning  eye  might  even  then  have  seen  that 
genius  and  learning  would  not  long  survive  the  state  of  things 
from  which  they  had  sprung,  and  that  the  great  men  whose 
talents  gave  lustre  to  that  melancholy  period  had  been  formed 
under  the  influence  of  happier  days,  and  would  leave  no  sue* 
cessors  behind  them.  The  times  which  shine  with  the  greatest 
splendor  in  literary  history  are  not  always  those  to  which 
the  human  mind  is  most  indebted.  Of  this  we  may  be  con- 
vinced, by  comparing  the  generation  which  follows  them 
with  that  wliich  had  preceded  them.  The  first  fruits  which 
are  reaped  under  a bad  system  often  spring  from  seed  sown 
under  a good  one.  Thus  it  was,  in  some  measure,  with  the 
Augustan  age.  Thus  it  was  with  the  age  of  Raphael  and 
Ariosto,  of  Aldus  and  Vida. 

Machiavelli  deeply  regretted  the  misfortunes  of  his  coun- 
try, and  clearly  discerned  the  cause  and  the  remedy.  It 
was  the  military  system  of  the  Italian  people  which  had 
extinguished  their  valor  and  discipline,  and  left  their  wealth 
an  easy  prey  to  every  foreign  plunderer.  The  Secretary 
projected  a scheme  alike  honorable  to  his  heart  and  to  his 
intellect,  for  abolishing  the  use  of  mercenary  troops,  and 
for  organizing  a national  militia. 

The  exertions  which  he  made  to  effect  this  great  object 
ought  alone  to  rescue  his  name  from  obloquy.  Though  his 
situation  and  his  habits  were  pacific,  he  studied  with  intense 
assiduity  the  theory  of  war.  He  made  himself  master  of 
all  its  details.  The  Florentine  government  entered  into 
his  views.  A council  of  war  was  appointed.  Levies  were 
decreed.  The  indefatigable  minister  flew  from  place  to 
])lace  in  order  to  superintend  the  execution  of  his  design. 
The  times  were,  in  some  respects,  favorable  to  the  experi- 
ment. The  system  of  military  tactics  had  undergone  a 
great  revolution.  The  cavalry  was  no  longer  considered  as 
forming  the  strength  of  an  army.  The  hours  which  a citizen 
could  spare  from  his  ordinary  emplo^mients,  though  by  no 
means  sufficient  to  familiarize  him  with  the  exercise  of  a 
man-at-arms,  might  render  him  an  useful  foot-soldier.  The 
dread  of  a foreign  yoke,  of  ])] under,  massacre,  and  confla- 
gration, might  have  conquered  that  repugnance  to  military 
pur‘«uits  which  both  the  industry  and  the  idleness  of  great 


MACiriAVELLT. 


221 


towDS  commonly  generate.  For  a time  the  scheme  promised 
well.  The  new  troops  acquitted  tliemselves  resj)ectably  in 
the  field.  Machiavelli  looked  with  parental  ra])ture  on  the 
success  of  his  plan,  and  began  to  hope  that  tlie  arms  of  Italy 
might  once  more  be  formidable  to  the  barbarians  of  the 
Tagus  and  the  Rhine.  But  tlie  tide  of  misfortune  came  on 
before  the  barriers  which  should  have  withstood  it  were 
prepared.  F or  a time,  indeed,  Florence  m ight  be  considered 
peculiarly  fortunate.  Famine  and  sword  and  pestilence 
had  devasted  the  fertile  plains  and  stately  cities  of  the  Po. 
All  the  curses  denounced  of  old  against  Tyre  seemed  to 
have  fallen  on  Venice.  Her  merchants  already  stood  afar 
off,  lamenting  for  their  great  city.  The  time  seemed  near 
when  the  sea-weed  should  overgrow  lier  silent  Rialto,  and 
tlie  fisherman  wash  his  nets  in  her  deserted  arsenal.  Naples 
had  been  four  times  conquered  and  reconquered  by  tyrants 
equally  indifferent  to  its  welfare,  and  equally  greedy  for  its 
spoils.  Florence,  as  yet,  had  only  to  endure  degradation 
and  extortion,  to  submit  to  the  mandates  of  foreign  powers, 
to  buy  over  and  over  again,  at  an  enormous  price,  what  was 
already  justly  her  own,  to  return  thanks  for  being  wronged, 
and  to  ask  pardon  for  being  in  the  right.  She  was  at  length 
deprived  of  the  blessings  even  of  this  infamous  and  servile 
repose.  Her  military  and  political  institutions  were  swept 
away  together.  The  Medici  returned,  in  the  train  of  for- 
eign invaders,  from  their  long  exile.  The  policy  of  Machia- 
velli was  abandoned  ; and  his  public  services  were  requited 
with  poverty,  imprisonment,  and  torture. 

The  fallen  statesman  still  clung  to  his  project  with  una- 
bated ardor.  With  the  view  of  vindicating  it  from  some 
popular  objections  and  of  refuting  some  prevailing  errors 
on  the  subject  of  military  science,  he  wrote  his  seven  books 
on  the  Art  of  W ar.  This  excellent  w^ork  is  in  the  form  of  a 
dialogue.  The  opinions  of  the  writer  are  put  into  the  mouth 
of  Fabriz-O  Colonna,  a powerful  nobleman  of  the  Ecclesias- 
tical State,  and  an  officer  of  distinguished  merit  in  the 
service  of  the  King  of  Spain.  Colonna  visits  Florence  on 
his  way  from  Lombardy  to  his  own  domains.  He  is  invited 
to  meet  some  friends  at  the  house  of  Cosimo  Rucellai,  an 
amiable  and  accomplished  young  man,  whose  early  death 
Machiavelli  feelingly  deplores.  After  partaking  of  an  ele- 
gant entertainment,  they  retire  from  the  heat  into  the  most 
shady  recesses  of  the  garden.  Fabrizio  is  struck  by  the 
eight  of  some  uncommon  plants.  Cosimo  says  that,  though 


222 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


rare,  in  modern  days,  they  are  frequently  mentioned  by  the 
classical  autliors,  and  tliat  liis  grandfather,  like  many  other 
Italians,  amused  liimself  with  j)ractising  the  ancient  methods 
of  gardening.  Fabrizio  expresses  his  regret  that  tliose  who, 
in  later  times,  affected  tlie  manners  of  the  old  Romans 
eliould  select  for  imitation  the  most  trifling  pursuits.  This 
leads  cO  a conversation  on  tlie  decline  of  military  discipline 
and  on  the  best  means  of  restoring  it.  The  institution  of 
the  Florentine  militia  is  ably  defended ; and  several  im- 
provements are  suggested  in  the  details. 

The  Swiss  and  the  Spaniards  were,  at  that  time,  regarded 
as  the  best  soldiers  in  Europe.  Tlie  Swiss  battalion  con- 
sisted of  pikemen,  and  bore  a close  resemblance  to  the  Greek 
phalanx.  The  Spaniards,  like  the  soldiers  of  Rome,  were 
armed  with  the  sword  and  the  shield.  The  victories  of 
Flamininus  and  ^milius  over  the  Macedonian  kings  seem  to 
prove  the  superiority  of  the  weapons  used  by  the  legions. 
The  same  experiment  had  been  recently  tried  with  the  same 
result  at  the  battle  of  Ravenna,  one  of  those  tremendous 
days  into  which  human  folly  and  wickedness  compress  the 
whole  devastation  a famine  or  a plague.  In  that  memor- 
able conflict,  the  infantry  of  Arragon,  the  old  companions 
of  Gonsalv  , deserted  by  all  their  allies,  hewed  a passage 
through  the  thickest  of  the  imperial  pikes,  and  effected  an 
unbroken  retreat,  in  the  face  f the  gendarmerie  of  De  Foix, 
and  the  renowned  artillery  of  Este.  Fabrizio,  or  rather 
Machiavelli,  proposes  to  combine  the  two  systems,  to  arm 
the  foremost  lines  with  the  pike  for  the  purpose  of  repulsing 
cavalry,  and  those  in  the  rear  with  the  sword,  as  being  a 
weapon  better  adapted  for  every  other  purpose.  Throughout 
the  work,  the  author  exjDresses  the  highest  admiration  of  the 
military  science^  of  the  ancient  Romans,  and  the  greatest 
contempt  for  the  maxims  which  had  been  in  vogue  amongst 
the  Italian  commanders  of  the  preceding  generation.  He 
prefers  infantry  to  cavalry,  and  fortified  camps  to  fortified 
towns.  He  is  inclined  to  substitute  rapid  movements  and 
decisive  engagements  for  the  languid  and  dilatory  operations 
of  his  countrymen.  He  attaches  very  little  importance  to 
the  invention'of  gunpowder.  Indeed  he  seems  to  think  that 
it  ought  scarcely  to  produce  any  change  in  the  mode  of 
arming  or  of  disposing  troops.  The  general  testimony  of 
historians,  it  must  be  allowed,  seems  to  prove  that  the  ill- 
constructed  and  ill-served  artillery*  of  those  times,  though 
useful  in  a siege,  was  of  little  value  on  the  field  of  battle. 


MACniAVELLI. 


223 


Of  the  tactics  of  Macliiavelli  we  will  not  venture  to  give 
an  o])inion  : but  we  are  certain  that  liis  book  is  most  able 
and  interesting.  As  a commentary  on  the  history  of  liis 
times,  it  is  invaluable.  The  ingenuity,  the  grace,  and  tlie 
perspicuity  of  the  style,  and  the  eloquence  and  animation  of 
particular  passages,  must  give  pleasure  even  to  readers  who 
take  no  interest  in  the  subject. 

The  Prince  and  the  Discourses  on  Livy  were  written 
after  the  fall  of  the  Republican  Government.  The  former 
w^as  dedicated  to  the  Young  Lorenzo  de’  Medici.  This  cir- 
cumstance seems  to  have  disgusted  the  contemporaries  of 
the  writer  far  more  than  the  doctrines  wdiich  have  rendered 
the  name  of  the  w^ork  odious  in  later  times.  It  was  con- 
sidered as  an  indication  of  political  apostasy.  The  fact 
however  seems  to  have  been  that  Macliiavelli,  despairing  of 
the  liberty  of  Florence,  was  inclined  to  support  any  govern- 
ment which  might  preserve  her  independence.  The  inter- 
val Avhich  separated  a democracy  and  a despotism,  Soderini 
and  Lorenzo,  seemed  to  vanish  w^hen  compared  with  the 
difference  between  the  former  and  the  present  tate  of  Italy, 
between  the  security,  the  opulence,  and  the  repose  wdiich 
she  had  enjoyed  under  its  native  rulers,  and  the  misery  in 
w^hich  she  had  been  plunged  since  the  fatal  year  in  which 
the  first  foreign  tyrant  had  descended  from  tlie  Alps.  The 
nobje  and  pathetic  exhortation  with  which  The  Prince  con- 
cludes shows  how  strongly  the  writer  felt  upon  this  subject. 

The  Prince  traces  the  progress  an  bitious  man,  the 
Discourses  the  prog  ss  f an  ambitious  people.  The  same 
principles  on  which,  in  th  former  work,  the  elevation  of  an 
individual  is  explained,  are  applied  in  die  latter,  to  the  longer 
duration  and  mor  lomplex  interest  of  a society.  To  a 
modern  statesman  the  form  if  the  Discourses  may  appear 
to  be  puerile.  In  truth  Livy  is  not  an  historian  on  wdiom 
implicit  reliance  can  be  placed,  even  in  cases  where  he  must 
liave  possessed  considerable  means  of  information.  And 
the  first  Decade,  to  which  Machiavelli  has  confined  himself, 
is  scarcely  entitled  to  more  credit  than  our  Chronicle  of 
British  Kings  who  reigned  before  the  Roman  invasion.  But 
the  commentator  is  indebted  to  Livy  for  little  more  than  a 
few  texts  which  he  might  as  easily  have  extracted  from  the 
Vulgate  or  the  Decameron.  The  whole  train  of  thought  is 
original. 

On  the  peculiar  immorality  wdiich  has  rendered  The 
Prince  ur.jiopular,  and  which  is  almost  equally  discerni- 


224  macaulay\s  miscellaneous  writings. 

ble  in  tlie  Discoiirsos,  we  liavc  already  given  oiir  opinion 
at  lengtli.  We  liave  atteinj>ted  to  sliow  tliat  it  Lelonged 
rather  to  tlie  age  tlian  to  tlie  man,  tliat  it  Avasa  jiartial  taint, 
and  by  no  means  imjilicd  general  depravity.  We  cannot 
however  deny  that  it  is  a great  blemisli,  and  that  it  consider- 
ably diminishes  the  pleasure  which,  in  otlicr  respects,  tliose 
works  must  afford  to  every  intelligent  mind. 

It  is,  indeed,  impossible  to  conceive  a more  healthful 
and  vigorous  constitution  of  the  understanding  than  that 
which  these  Avorks  indicate.  The  qualities  of  the  active 
and  the  contemplative  statesman  a])pear  to  haA^e  been 
blended  in  the  mind  of  the  Avriter  into  a rare  and  exquisite 
harmony.  His  skill  in  the  details  of  business  had  not  been 
acquired  at  the  expense  of  his  general  jioAvers.  It  had  not 
rendered  his  mind  less  comprehensive ; but  it  had  served  to 
correct  his  speculations,  and  to  impart  to  them  that  Auvid 
and  practical  character  which  so  widely  distinguishes  them 
from  the  vague  theories  of  most  political  philosophers. 

Every  man  Avho  has  seen  the  world  knoAvs  that  nothing 
is  so  useless  as  a general  maxim.  If  it  be  very  moral  and 
very  true,  it  may  serve  for  a co])y  to  a charity-boy.  If,  like 
those  of  Jiouchefoucault,  it  be  sparkling  and  wliimsical,  it 
may  make  an  excellent  motto  for  an  essay.  But  fcAV  indeed 
of  the  many  Avise  apophthegms  Avhich  haA^e  been  uttered, 
from  the  time  of  the  Seven  Sages  of  Greece  to  that  of  Poor 
Richard,  have  prevented  a single  foolish  action.  We  give 
the  highest  and  the  most  peculiar  praise  to  the  precepts  of 
MachiaA^elli  Avhen  Ave  say  that  they  may  frequently  be  of 
real  use  in  regulating  conduct,  not  so  much  because  they  are 
more  just  or  more  profound  than  those  which  might  be 
culled  from  other  authors,  as  because  they  can  be  more 
readily  applied  to  the  problems  of  real  life. 

There  are  errors  in  these  Avorks.  But  they  are  errors 
which  a writer,  situated  like  Machiavelli,  could  scarcely 
avoid.  They  arise,  for  the  most  part,  from  a single  defect 
which  appears  to  us  to  pervade  his  whole  system.  In  his 
political  scheme,  the  means  had  been  mor  deeply  considered 
than  the  ends.  The  great  principle,  that  societies  and  laAvs 
exist  only  for  the  purpose  of  increasing  the  sura  of  private 
happiness,  is  not  recognized  Avith  sufficient  clearness.  The 
good  of  the  body,  distinct  from  the  good  of  the  members, 
and  sometimes  hardly  compatible  Avith  the  good  of  the  mem- 
bers, seems  to  be  the  object  Avhich  he  proposes  to  himself. 
Of  all  political  fallacies,  this  has  perhaps  had  the  widest  an} 


MACHIAVELti. 


225 


the  most  mischievous  operation.  The  state  of  society  in  the 
little  commonwealths  of  Greece,  the  close  connection  and 
mutual  dependence  of  the  citizens,  and  the  severity  of  the 
laws  of  war,  tended  to  encourage  an  opinion  which,  under 
such  circumstances,  could  hardly  be  called  erroneous.  The 
interests  of  every  individual  were  inseparably  bound  up  with 
those  of  the  state.  An  invasion  destroyed  his  corn-fields 
and  vineyards,  drove  him  from  his  home,  and  compelled  him 
to  encounter  all  tlie  hardships  of  a military  life.  A treaty 
of  peace  restored  him  to  security  and  comfort.  A victoi’y 
doubled  the  number  of  his  slaves.  A defeat  perhaps  made 
him  a slave  himself.  When  Pericles,  in  the  Peloponnesian 
war,  told  the  Athenians,  that,  if  their  country  triumphed, 
their  private  losses  would  speedily  be  repaired,  but  that,  J 
their  arms  failed  of  success,  every  individual  amongst  them 
would  probably  be  ruined,  he  spoke  no  more  than  the  truth. 
He  spoke  to  men  whom  the  tribute  of  vanquished  cities  sup- 
plied with  food  and  clothing,  with  the  luxury  of  the  bath 
and  the  amusements  of  the  theatre,  on  whom  the  greatness 
of  their  country  conferred  rank,  and  before  whom  the  mem- 
bers of  less  prosperous  communities  trembled  ; to  men  who, 
in  case  of  a change  in  the  public  fortunes,  would,  at  least, 
be  deprived  of  every  comfort  and  every  distinction  which 
they  enjoyed.  To  be  butchered  on  the  smoking  ruins  of 
their  city,  to  be  dragged  in  chains  to  a slave-market,  to  see 
one  child  torn  from  them  to  dig  in  the  quarries  of  Sicily, 
and  another  to  guard  the  harems  of  Persepolis,  these  were 
the  frequent  and  probable  consequences  of  national  calami- 
ty s.  Hence,  among  the  Greeks,  patriotism  became  a govern- 
ing principle,  or  rather  an  ungovernable  passion.  Their 
legislators  and  their  philosophers  took  it  for  granted  that,  in 
providing  for  the  strength  and  greatness  of  the  state,  they 
sufficiently  provided  for  the  happiness  of  the  people.  The 
writers  of  the  Roman  empire  lived  under  despots,  into  whose 
dominion  a hundred  nations  were  melted  down,  and  whose 
gardens  would  have  covered  the  little  commonwealths  of 
Phlius  and  Plata3a.  Yet  they  continued  to  employ  the  same 
language,  and  to  cant  about  the  duty  of  sacrificing  every 
thing  to  a country  to  which  they  owed  nothing. 

Causes  similar  to  those  which  had  influenced  the  disposi- 
tion of  the  Greeks  operated  powerfully  on  the  less  vigorous 
and  daring  character  of  the  Italians.  The  Italians,  like  the 
Greeks,  were  members  of  small  communities.  Every  man 
was  deeply  interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  society  to  whyf;|i 
VoL.  L—ip 


JS'ACAULilY’s  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINOS. 


•Z2(5 


he  beloiiG^ed,  a ])artaker  in  its  wealtli  and  its  poverty,  in  its 
glory  and  its  shame.  In  the  age  of  Machiavelli  this  was 
peculiarly  the  case.  Public  events  had  })roduced  an  im- 
mense sum  of  misery  to  private  citizens.  The  Northern  in- 
vaders had  brought  want  to  their  boards,  infamy  to  their 
beds,  fire  to  their  roofs,  and  the  knife  to  tlieir  throats.  It 
was  natural  that  a man  who  lived  in  times  like  these  should 
overi*ate  the  importance  of  those  measures  by  which  a na- 
tion is  rendered  formidable  to  its  neighbors,  and  undervalue 
those  which  make  it  prosperous  within  itself. 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  the  political  treatises 
Machiavelli  than  the  fairness  of  mind  which  they  indicate. 
It  ap])ears  Avhere  the  author  is  in  the  wrong,  almost  I'.s 
strongly  as  Avhere  he  is  in  the  right.  He  never  advances  a 
false  opinion  because  it  is  new  or  splendid,  because  he  can 
clothe  it  ill  a happy  phrase,  or  defend  it  by  an  ingenious 
sophism.  Ilis  errors  are  at  once  explained  by  a reference 
to  the  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed.  They  evi 
dently  were  not  sought  out ; they  lay  in  his  way,  and  could 
scarcely  be  avoided.  Such  mistakes  must  necessarily  be 
committed  by  early  speculators  in  every  science. 

In  this  respect  it  is  amusing  to  conyDare  The  Prince  and 
the  Discourses  with  the  Spirit  of  Laws.  Montesquieu  en 
joys,  perhaps,  a wider  celebrity  than  any  political  writer  of 
modern  Europe.  Something  he  doubtless  owes  to  his  merit, 
but  much  more  to  his  fortune.  lie  had  the  good  luck  of  a 
Valentine.  He  caught  the  eye  of  the  French  nation,  at  the 
moment  when  it  was  waking  from  the  long  sleep  of  political 
and  religious  bigotry;  and,  in  consequence,  he  became  a 
favorite.  The  English,  at  that  time,  considered  a F ren . h- 
man  who  talked  about  constitutional  checks  and  funda- 
mental laws  as  a prodigy  not  less  astonishing  than  tho 
learned  pig  or  the  musical  infant.  Specious  but  shallow, 
Btudious  of  effect,  indifferent  to  truth,  eager  to  build  a sys- 
tem, but  careless  of  collecting  those  materials  out  of  winch 
alone  a sound  and  durable  system  can  be  built,  the  lively 
President  constructed  theories  as  rapidly  and  as  slightly  as 
card-houses,  no  sooner  projected  than  completed,  no  sooner 
completed  than  blown  away,  no  sooner  blown  away  than 
forgotten.  Machiavelli  errs  only  because  his  experience,  ac- 
quired in  a very  peculiar  state  of  society,  could  not  always 
enable  him  to  calculate  the  effect  of  institutions  differing 
trom  those  of  which  he  had  observed  the  operation.  Mon- 
tefi^quieu  errs,  because  he  has  a fine  thing  to  say,  and  is  re 


MACniAVELLI. 


227 


solved  to  say  it.  If  the  phaenomena  which  1/e  before  liiin 
will  not  suit  liis  purpose,  all  history  must  be  ransacked.  If 
nothing  established  by  authentic  testimony  can  be  racked 
or  chipped  to  suit  his  Procrustean  hypothesis,  he  puts  up 
with  some  monstrous  fable  about  Siam,  or  Bantam,  or  Ja- 
pan, told  by  writers  compared  with  whom  Lucian  and  Gul- 
liver were  veracious,  liars  by  a double  right,  as  travellers 
and  as  Jesuits. 

Propriety  of  thought  and  propriety  of  diction  are  com- 
monly found  together.  Obscurity  and  affectation  are  the 
two  greatest  faults  of  style.  Obscurity  of  expression  gener- 
ally springs  from  confusion  of  ideas  ; and  the  same  wish  to 
dazzle  at  any  cost  which  produces  affectation  in  the  manner 
of  a writer,  is  likely  to  produce  sophistry  in  his  reasonings. 
The  judicious  and  candid  mind  of  Machiavelli  shows  itself 
in  his  luminous,  manly,  and  polished  language.  The  style 
of  Montesquieu,  on  the  other  hand,  indicates  in  every  page 
a lively  and  ingenious,  but  an  unsound  mind.  Every  trick 
of  expression,  from  the  mysterious  conciseness  of  an  oracle 
to  the  flippancy  of  a Parisian  coxcomb,  is  employed  to  dis- 
guise the  fallacy  of  some  positions,  and  the  triteness  of 
others.  Absurdities  are  brightened  into  epigrams  ; truisms 
are  darkened  into  enigmas.  It  is  with  difficulty  that  the 
strongest  eye  can  sustain  the  glare  with  which  some  parts 
ai*e  illuminated,  or  penetrate  the  shade  in  which  others  are 
concealed. 

The  political  works  of  Machiavelli  derive  a peculiar  in- 
terest from  the  mournful  earnestness  which  he  manifests 
whenever  he  touches  on  topics  connected  with  the  calami- 
ties of  his  native  land.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  any  situation 
more  painful  than  that  of  a great  man,  condemned  to  watch 
the  lingering  agony  of  an  exhausted  country,  to  tend  it  dur- 
ing the  alternate  fits  of  stupefaction  and  raving  which  pre- 
cede its  dissolution,  and  to  see  the  symptoms  of  vitality  dis» 
appear  one  by  one,  till  nothing  is  left  but  coldness,  darkness, 
and  corruption.  To  this  joyless  and  thankless  duty  was 
Machiavelli  called.  In  the  energetic  language  of  the  proph- 
et, 1 e was  ‘‘  mad  for  the  sight  of  his  eyes  wffiich  he  saw,” 
disunion  in  the  council,  effeminacy  in  the  camp,  liberty  ex- 
tinguished, commerce  decaying,  national  honor  sullied,  an 
enlightened  and  flourishing  people  given  over  to  the  ferocity 
of  ignorant  savages.  Though  his  opinions  had  not  escaped 
the  contagion  of  that  political  immorality  which  was  com- 
uoii  among  his  countrymenj  his  natural  disposition  seems 


228  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wiutings. 

to  have  been  rather  stern  and  impetuous  than  pliant  and 
artful.  When  the  misery  and  degradation  of  Florence  and 
the  foul  outrage  which  he  had  himself  sustained  recur  to  his 
mind,  the  smooth  craft  of  his  profession  and  his  nation  is 
exchanged  for  tlie  honest  bitterness  of  scorn  and  anger. 
Fie  speaks  like  one  sick  of  the  calamitous  times  and  abject 
people  among  whom  his  lot  is  cast.  He  pines  for  the 
strength  and  glory  of  ancient  Home,  for  the  fasces  of  Igni- 
tus and  the  sword  of  Scipio,  the  gravity  of  the  curule  chair, 
and  the  bloody  pomp  of  the  triumphal  sacrifice.  He  seems 
to  be  transported  back  to  the  days  when  eight  hundred 
thousand  Italian  warriors  sprung  to  arms  at  tlie  rumor  of  a 
Gallic  invasion.  He  breathes  all  the  spirit  of  those  intrepid 
and  haughty  senators  who  forgot  the  dearest  ties  of  natuio 
in  the  claims  of  public  duty,  who  looked  with  disdain  on 
the  elephants  and  on  the  gold  of  Pyrrhus,  and  listened  with 
unaltered  composure  to  the  tremendous  tidings  of  Cannae. 
Like  an  ancient  temple  deformed  by  the  barbarous  architect- 
ure of  a later  age,  his  character  acquires  an  interest  from 
the  very  circumstances  which  debase  it.  "i'he  original  pro- 
portions are  rendered  more  striking  by  the  contrast  which 
they  present  to  the  mean  and  incongruous  additions. 

The  influence  of  the  sentiments  which  we  have  described 
was  not  apparent  in  his  writings  alone.  His  enthusiasm, 
barred  from  the  career  which  it  would  have  selected  for  it- 
self, seems  to  have  found  a vent  in  desperate  levity.  He 
enjoyed  a vindictive  pleasure  in  outraging  the  opinions  of  a 
society  which  he  despised.  He  became  careless  of  the  de- 
cencies which  were  expected  from  a man  so  highly  distin- 
guished in  the  literary  and  political  world.  The  sarcastic 
bitterness  of  his  conversation  disgusted  those  who  were  more 
inclined  to  accuse  his  licentiousness  than  their  own  degen- 
eracy, and  who  were  unable  to  conceive  the  strength  of 
those  emotions  which  are  concealed  by  the  jests  of  the 
wretched,  and  by  the  follies  of  the  wise. 

The  historical  works  of  Machiavelli  still  remain  to  be 
considered.  The  life  of  Castruccio  Castracani  will  occupy 
us  for  a very  short  time,  and  would  scarcely  have  demanded 
our  notice,  had  it  not  attracted  a much  greater  share  of 
public  attention  than  it  deserves.  Few  books,  indeed, 
could  be  more  interesting  than  a careful  and  judicious 
account,  from  such  a pen,  of  the  illustrious  Prince  of  LuCca, 
the  most  eminent  of  those  Italian  chiefs,  Avholike  Pisistratus 
and  Gelon,  acquired  a j)ower  felt  rather  chan  seen,  and  rest 


MACHTAVELLI. 


229 


ing,  not  on  law  or  on  prescription,  but  on  the  public  fav^oi 
and  on  tlieir  great  personal  qualities.  Such  a work  would 
exhibit  to  us  the  real  nature  of  that  species  of  sovereignty, 
so  singular  and  so  often  misunderstood,  which  the  Greeks 
denominated  tyranny,  and  which,  modified  in  some  degree 
by  the  feudal  system,  reappeared  in  the  commonwealths  of 
Lombardy  and  Tuscany.  But  this  little  composition  of 
Machiavelli  is  in  no  sense  a history.  It  has  no  pretensions 
to  fidelity.  It  is  a trifle,  and  not  a very  successful  trifle.  It 
is  scarcely  more  authentic  than  the  novel  of  Belphegor,  and 
is  very  much  duller. 

The  last  great  work  of  this  illustrious  man  was  the  his* 
tory  of  his  native  city.  It  was  written  by  command  of  the 
Pope,  who,  as  chief  of  the  house  of  Medici,  was  at  that  time 
sovereign  of  Florence.  The  characters  of  Cosmo,  of  Piero, 
and  of  Lorenzo,  are,  however,  treated  with  a freedom  and 
impartiality  equally  honorable  to  the  writer  and  to  the 
patron.  The  miseries  and  humiliations  of  dependence,  the 
bread  which  is  more  bitter  than  every  other  food,  the  stairs 
Avhich  are  more  painful  than  every  other  ascent,  had  not 
broken  the  spirit  of  Machiavelli.  The  most  corrupting  post 
in  a corrupting  profession  had  not  depraved  the  generous 
heart  of  Clement. 

Tlie  History  does  not  appear  to  be  the  fruit  of  much 
industry  or  research.  It  is  unquestionably  inaccurate.  But 
it  is  elegant,  lively,  and  picturesque,  beyond  any  other  in 
the  Italian  language.  The  reader,  we  believe,  carries  away 
fi*om  it  a more  vivid  and  a more  faithful  impression  of  the 
national  character  and  manners  than  from  more  correct 
accounts.  The  truth  is,  that  the  book  belongs  rather  to 
ancient  than  to  modern  literature.  It  is  in  the  style,  not  of 
Davila  and  Clarendon,  but  of  Herodotus  and  Tacitus.  The 
classical  histories  may  almost  be  called  romances  founded  in 
fact.  The  relation  is,  no  doubt,  in  all  its  principal  points, 
strictly  true.  But  the  numerous  little  incidents  which 
heighten  the  interest,  the  words,  tho  gestures,  the  looks,  are 
evidently  furnished  by  the  imagination  of  the  author.  The 
fashion  of  later  times  is  different.  A more  exact  narrative 
is  given  by  the  writer.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  more 
exact  notions  are  conveyed  to  the  reader.  The  best  portraits 
are  perhaps  those  in  which  there  is  a slight  mixture  of  cari- 
cature, and  we  are  not  certain,  that  the  best  histories  are 
not  those  in  which  a little  of  tlie  exaggeration  of  fictitious 
narrative  is  Judiciously  employed.  Something  is  lost  in 


230  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wiutingb. 

accuracy  ; but  mucli  is  gained  in  effect.  The  fainter  lines 
are  neglected  ; but  the  great  characteristic  features  are  im- 
printed on  tlie  mind  for  ever. 

The  History  terminates  with  the  death  of  Lorenzo  de’ 
Medici.  Machiavclli  had,  it  seems,  intended  to  continue  his 
narrative  to  a later  period.  But  his  death  prevented  the 
execution  of  liis  design ; and  the  melancholy  task  of  record- 
ing the  desolation  and  shame  of  Italy  devolved  on  Guicci 
ardini. 

Machiavelli  lived  long  enough  to  see  the  commencement 
of  the  last  struggle  for  Florentine  liberty.  Soon  after  his 
death  monarchy  was  finally  established,  not  such  a monarchy 
as  that  of  which  Cosmo  had  laid  the  foundations  deep  in 
the  institutions  and  feelings  of  Ins  countrymen,  and  which 
Lorenzo  had  embellished  Avith  the  trophies  of  every  science 
and  every  art ; but  a loathsome  tyranny,  proud  and  mean, 
cruel  and  feeble,  bigotted  and  lascivious.  The  character  of 
M.4.chiavelli  Avas  hateful  to  the  noAV  masters  of  Italy ; and 
those  parts  of  his  theory  Avhich  Avere  in  strict  accordance 
Avith  their  oAvn  daily  practice  afforded  a pretext  for  blacken- 
ing his  memory.  His  Avorks  were  misrepresented  by  the 
learned,  misconstrued  by  the  ignorant,  censured  by  the 
church,  abused  Avith  all  the  rancor  of  simulated  Aurtue,  by 
the  tools  of  a base  goA^ernment,  and  the  priests  of  a baser 
isupersiition.  The  name  of  the  man  whose  genius  had 
illuminated  all  the  dark  places  of  policy,  and  to  whose 
patriotic  Avisdom  an  oppressed  people  had  oAved  their  last 
chance  of  emancipation  and  revenge,  passed  into  a proverb 
of  infamy.  For  more  than  tAvo  hundred  years  his  bones  lay 
undistinguished.  At  length,  an  English  nobleman  paid  the 
last  honors  to  tlie  greatest  statesman  of  Florence.  In  the 
church  of  Santa  Croce  a monument  was  erected  to  his  mem- 
ory, AAdiich  is  contemplated  Avith  rcA^erence  by  all  who  can 
distinguish  the  Aurtues  of  a great  mind  through  the  corrup- 
tions of  a degenerate  age,  and  which  will  be  approached 
with  still  deeper  homage  when  the  object  to  Avdiich  liis  public 
life  Avas  devoted  shall  be  attained,  when  the  foreign  yoke 
sh.all  be  broken,  AAdien  a second  Procida  shall  aA^enge  the 
Avrongs  of  Na}:)les,  when  a happier  Rienzi  shall  restore  the 
good  estate  of  Rome,  when  the  streets  of  Florence  and 
Bologna  shall  again  resound  with  their  ancient  war-cry^ 
Popolo  ; popolo  ; muoiano  i tiranni  / 


J’OHN  DUYDEN. 


231 


JOHN  DRYDEN .♦ 

{Edinburgh  Revieio^  January j 1828.' 

Ttte  public  voice  has  assigned  to  Dryden  the  first  place 
in  the  second  rank  of  our  poets, — no  mean  station  in  a table 
of  intellectual  precedency  so  rich  in  illustrious  names.  It  is 
allowed  that,  even  of  the  few  who  were  his  superiors  in 
genius,  none  has  exercised  a more  extensive  or  permanent 
influence  on  tlie  national  habits  of  thought  and  expression. 
Ilis  life  was  commensurate  with  the  period  during  which  a 
great  revolution  in  the  public  taste  was  effected  ; and  in 
that  revolution  he  played  the  part  of  Cromwell.  By  um 
scrupulously  taking  the  lead  in  its  wildest  excesses,  he  ob- 
tained the  absolute  guidance  of  it.  By  trampling  on  laws, 
he  acquired  the  authority  of  a legislator.  By  signalizing 
himself  as  the  most  daring  and  irreverent  of  rebels,  he  raised 
himself  to  the  dignity  of  a recognized  prince.  He  com- 
menced hk  career  by  the  most  frantic  outrages.  He  ter- 
minated it  in  the  repose  of  established  sovereignty, — the 
author  of  a new  code,  the  root  of  a new  dynasty. 

Of  Dryden,  however,  as  of  almost  every  man  who  has 
been  distinguished  either  in  the  literary  or  in  the  political 
world,  it  may  be  said  that  the  course  which  he  pursued,  and 
the  effect  which  he  produced,  depended  less  on  his  personal 
qualities  than  on  the  circumstances  in  which  he  was  jflaced. 
Those  who  have  read  history  with  discrimination  know  the 
fallacy  of  those  panegyrics  and  invectives  which  represent  in- 
dividuals as  effecting  great  moral  and  intellectual  revolu- 
tions, subverting  established  systems,  and  imprinting  a new 
character  on  their  age.  The  difference  between  one  man 
and  another  is  by  no  means  so  great  as  the  superstitious 
crowd  supposes.  But  the  same  feelings  which  in  ancient 
Rome  produced  the  apotheosis  of  a popular  emperor,  and  in 
modern  Rome  the  canonization  of  a devout  prelate,  led  men 
to  cherish  an  illusion  which  furnishes  them  with  something 
to  adore.  By  a law  of  association,  from  the  operation  of 
which  even  minds  the  most  strictly  regulated  by  reason  are 

* The  Poetical  Worlcs  ef  John  Dryden.  In  2 volumes.  CTuiveraitsr 
Edition.  London,  J826. 


Macaulay’s  mtscellankotts  wuiTiisraS. 

not  wliolly  exempt,  misery  disj^osos  ns  to  liatrcd,  and  happi- 
ness to  love,  altlioin;]!  there  may  ])c  no  ])ersoii  to  ^v]lom  our 
misery  or  our  liap])iness  can  1)0  ascrilxMl.  The  ])cevislmes3 
of  an  invalid  vents  itself  even  on  those  who  alleviate  liis 
pain.  The  ^ood  luimor  of  a man  elated  hy  success  often 
dis])lays  itself  towards  enemies.  In  tlie  same  manner,  tlio 
feelings  of  j)leasure  and  admiration,  to  which  the  contem- 
plation of  great  events  gives  birth,  make  an  object  where 
they  do  not  find  it.  Thus,  nations  descend  to  the  absurdities 
of  Egyptian  idolatry,  and  worshi])  stocks  and  reptiles — 
Sachcverells  and  Wilkeses.  They  even  fall  j)rostrate  before 
a deity  to  which  they  have  themselves  given  the  foiTii  which 
commands  their  veneration,  and  which,  unless  fashioned  by 
them,  would  have  remained  a shapeless  block.  They  ])er- 
suade  themselves  that  they  are  the  creatures  of  wdiat  they 
have  themselves  created.  For,  in  fact,  it  is  the  age  that 
forms  the  man,  not  the  man  that  forms  the  age.  Great 
minds  do  indeed  re-act  on  the  society  which  has  made  them 
what  they  are  ; but  they  only  pay  with  interest  what  tliey 
have  received.  We  extol  Bacon  and  sneer  at  Aquinas. 
But,  if  their  situations  had  been  changed.  Bacon  might  have 
been  the  Angelical  Doctor,  the  most  subtle  Aristotelian  of 
the  schools;  the  Dominican  might  have  led  forth  the 
sciences  from  their  house  of  bondage.  If  Luther  had  been 
born  in  the  tenth  century,  he  would  have  effected  no  refor- 
mation. If  he  had  never  been  born  at  all,  it  is  evident  that 
the  sixteenth  century  could  not  have  elapsed  without  a 
great  schism  in  the  church.  Voltaire,  in  the  days  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  would  probably  have  been,  like  most  of  the 
literary  men  of  that  time,  a zealous  Jansenist,  eminent  among 
the  defenders  of  efficacious  grace,  a bitter  assailant  of  the 
lax  morality  of  the  Jesuits  and  the  unreasonable  decisions 
of  the  Sorbonne.  If  Pascal  had  entered  on  his  literary 
career  when  intelligence  was  more  general,  and  abuses  at  the 
game  time  more  flagrant,  when  the  church  was  polluted  by 
the  Iscariot  Dubois,  the  court  disgraced  by  the  orgies  of 
Canillac,  and  the  nation  sacrifleed  to  the  juggles  of  Law,  if 
he  had  lived  to  see  a dynasty  of  harlots,  an  empty  treasury 
and  a crowded  harem,  an  army  formidable  only  to  those 
whom  it  should  have  protected,  a priesthood  just  religious 
enough  to  be  intolerant,  he  might  possibly,  like  every  man 
of  genius  in  France,  have  imbibed  extravagant  prejudices 
against  monarchy  and  Christianity.  The  wit  which  blasted 
the  sophisms  of  Escobar- — the  impassioned  eloquence  which 


JOHN  DRYDETfl’. 


233 


defended  the  sisters  of  Port  Royal — the  intellectual  hardi* 
hood  wliich  was  not  beaten  down  even  by  Papal  authority 
— might  have  raised  him  to  the  Patriarchate  of  the  Philoso- 
phical Church.  It  was  long  disputed  whether  the  honor  of 
inventing  the  method  of  Fluxions  belonged  to  Newton  or  to 
Leibnitz.  It  is  now  generally  allowed  that  these  great  men 
made  the  same  discovery  at  the  same  time.  Mathematical 
science,  indeed,  had  then  reached  such  a point  that,  if  neither 
of  them  had  ever  existed,  the  principle  must  inevitably  have 
occurred  to  some  person  within  a few  years.  So  in  our  own 
lime  the  doctrine  of  rent,  now  universally  received  by  poli- 
tical economists,  was  propounded,  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, by  two  writers  unconnected  with  each  other.  Pre- 
ceding speculators  had  long  been  blundering  round  about 
it ; and  it  could  not  possibly  have  been  missed  much  longer 
by  the  most  heedless  inquirer.  We  are  inclined  to  think 
that,  with  respect  to  every  great  addition  which  has  been 
made  to  the  stock  of  human  knowledge,  the  case  has  been 
similar ; that  without  Copernicus  we  should  have  been  Coper- 
nicans, — that  without  Columbus  America  would  have  been 
discovered, — that  without  Locke  we  should  have  possessed 
a just  theory  of  the  origin  of  human  ideas.  Society  indeed 
has  its  great  men  and  its  little  men,  as  the  earth  has  its 
mountains  and  its  valleys.  But  the  inequalities  of  intellect, 
like  the  inequalities  of  the  surface  of  our  globe,  bear  so  small 
a proportion  to  the  mass,  that,  in  calculating  its  great  revo- 
lutions, they  may  safely  be  neglected.  The  sun  illuminates 
the  hills,  while  it  is  still  below  the  horizon ; and  truth  is 
discovered  by  the  highest  minds  a little  before  it  becomes 
manifest  to  the  multitude.  This  is  the  extent  of  their 
superiority.  They  are  the  first  to  catch  and  reflect  a light, 
which,  without  their  assistance,  must,  in  a short  time,  be 
visible  to  those  who  lie  far  beneath  them. 

The  same  remark  will  apply  equally  to  the  fine  arts. 
The  laws  on  which  depend  the  progress  and  decline  of 
poetry,  painting,  and  sculpture,  operate  with  little  less  cer- 
tainty than  those  which  regulate  the  periodical  returns  of 
heat  and  cold,  of  fertility  and  barrenness.  Those  who  seem 
to  lead  the  public  taste  are,  in  general,  merely  outrunning  it 
in  the  direction  which  it  is  spontaneously  pursuing.  With- 
out a just  apprehension  of  the  laws  to  which  we  have  alluded, 
the  merits  and  defects  of  Dryden  can  be  but  imperfectly 
understood.  We  will,  therefore,  state  what  we  conceive 
them  to  be* 


234  Macaulay’s  misceli.aneous  writings. 

Tiie  ages  in  wliicli  tlie  master-pieces  of  imagination  have 
been  produced  liave  by  no  means  been  those  in  which  taste 
has  been  most  correct.  It  seems  tliat  the  creative  faculty, 
and  tlie  critical  faculty,  cannot  exist  together  in  tlieir  liigh- 
ost  perfection.  The  causes  of  this  phenomenon  it  is  not 
difficult  to  assign. 

It  is  ^.rue  that  the  man  who  is  best  able  to  take  a machine 
to  pieces,  and  who  most  clearly  comprehends  the  manner  in 
which  all  its  wheels  and  springs  conduce  to  its  general 
effect,  will  be  tlie  man  most  competent  to  form  another 
machine  of  similar  power.  In  all  the  branches  of  physical 
and  moral  science  which  admit  of  perfect  analysis,  he  who 
can  resolve  will  be  able  to  combine.  But  the  analysis  which 
criticism  can  effect  of  poetry  is  necessarily  imperfect.  One 
element  must  for  ever  elude  its  researches  ; and  that  is  the 
very  element  by  which  jioetry  is  poetry.  In  the  description 
of  nature,  for  example,  a judicious  reader  will  easily  detect 
an  incongruous  image.  But  he  will  find  it  impossible  to 
explain  in  what  consists  the  art  of  a writer  who,  in  a few 
w^ords,  brings  some  spot  before  him  so  vividly  that  he  shall 
know  it  as  if  he  had  lived  there  from  childhood;  wdiile 
another,  employing  the  same  materials,  the  same  verdure, 
the  same  water,  and  the  same  flowers,  committing  no  inac- 
curacy, introducing  nothing  which  can  be  positively  pro- 
nounced superfluous,  omitting  nothing  which  can  be  posi- 
tively pronounced  necessary,  shall  produce  no  more  effect 
than  an  advertisement  of  a capital  residence  and  a desirable 
pleasure-ground.  To  take  another  example : the  great 
features  of  the  character  of  Hotspur  are  obvious  to  the  most 
superficial  reader.  We  at  once  perceive  that  his  courage  is 
splendid,  his  thirst  of  glory  intense,  his  animal  spirits  high, 
his  temper  careless,  arbitrary,  and  petulant ; that  he  indulges 
his  own  humor  Avithout  caring  whose  feelings  he  may 
wound,  or  Avhose  enmity  he  may  provoke  by  his  levity 
Thus  far  criticism  will  go.  But  something  is  still  wanting 
A man  might  have  all  those  qualities  and  every  otliei 
quality  which  the  most  minute  examiner  can  introduce  into 
his  catalogue  of  the  virtues  and  faults  of  Hotspur,  and  yet 
he  would  not  be  Hotspur.  Almost  everything  that  we  have 
said  of  him  applies  equally  to  Falconbridge.  Yet  in  the 
mouth  of  Falconbridge  most  of  his  speeches  Avould  seem 
out  of  place.  In  real  life  this  perpetually  occurs.  We  are 
sensible  of  wide  differences  between  men  whom,  if  we  wmra 
required  to  describe  them^  we  should  describe  in  almost  the 


JOQN  DRYDElSr. 


235 


game  tormfi.  Tf  wo  were  attempting  to  draw  elaborate 
characters  of  them,  we  should  scarcely  be  able  to  point  out 
any  strong  distinction  ; yet  we  approach  them  with  feelings 
altogether  dissimilar.  We  cannot  conceive  of  them  as 
using  the  expressions  or  tlie  gestures  of  each  other.  Let  us 
suppose  that  a zoologist  should  attempt  to  give  an  account 
of  some  animal,  a porcupine  for  instance,  to  people  who  had 
never  seen  it.  The  porcupine,  he  might  say,  is  of  the  genus 
mammalia,  and  the  order  glires.  There  are  whiskers  on  its 
face  ; it  is  two  feet  long  ; it  has  four  toes  before,  five  behind, 
two  fore  teeth,  and  eight  grinders.  Its  body  is  covered 
with  hair  and  quills.  And,  when  all  this  had  been  said, 
would  any  one  of  the  auditors  have  formed  a just  idea  of  a 
porcupine  ? Would  any  two  of  them  have  formed  the  same 
idea?  There  might  exist  innumerable  races  of  animals, 
possessing  all  the  characteristics  which  have  been  mentioned, 
yet  altogether  unlike  to  each  other.  What  the  description 
of  our  naturalist  is  to  a real  porcupine,  the  remarks  of  criti- 
cism are  to  the  images  of  poetry.  What  it  so  imperfectly 
decomposes  it  cannot  perfectly  re-construct.  It  is  evidently 
as  impossible  to  produce  an  Othello  or  a Macbeth  by  re- 
versing an  analytical  process  so  defective,  as  it  would  be 
for  an  anatomist  to  form  a living  man  out  of  the  fragments 
of  his  dissecting-room.  In  both  cases  the  vital  principle 
eludes  the  finest  instruments,  and  vanishes  in  the  very  in- 
stant in  which  its  seat  is  touched.  Hence  those  who,  trust- 
ing to  their  critical  skill,  attempt  to  write  poems  give  us, 
not  images  of  things,  but  catalogues  of  qualities.  Their 
characters  are  allegories ; not  good  men  and  bad  men,  but 
cardinal  virtues  and  deadly  sins.  We  seem  to  have  fallen 
among  the  acquaintances  of  our  old  friend  Christian  ; some- 
times we  meet  Mistrust  and  Timorous;  sometimes ’ Mr. 
Ilategood  and  Mr.  Love-lust;  and  then  again  Prudence, 
Piety,  and  Charity. 

That  critical  discernment  is  not  sufiicient  to  make  men 
poets,  is  generally  allowed.  Why  it  should  keep  them  from 
becoming  poets,  is  not  perhaps  equally  evident : but  the 
fact  is,  that  poetry  requires  not  an  examining  but  a believing 
frame  of  mind.  Those  feel  it  most,  and  write  it  best,  who 
forget  that  it  is  a work  of  art;  to  whom  its  imitations,  like 
the  realities  from  which  they  are  taken,  are  subjects,  not  for 
connoisseurship,  but  for  tears  and  laughter,  resentment  and 
affection ; wlio  are  too  much  under  the  influence  of  the  illu- 
sion to  admire  the  genius  which  has  produced  it;  who  aro 


236  Macaulay’s  miscellankous  writings. 

(GO  mnch  fri^litcnod  forUlyfises  in  tho  cave  of  Polypliemufi 
(o  care  wliether  the  ])un  about  Ontis  be  good  or  bad  ; wlio 
forget  that  sucli  a ])erson  as  Shakspeare  ever  existed,  while 
tliey  weep  and  curse  with  Lear.  It  is  l)y  giving  faith  to  the 
creations  of  the  imagination  that  a man  becomes  a poet.  It 
is  by  treating  those  creations  as  deceptions,  and  byresolving 
them,  as  nearly  as  possible,  into  their  elements,  that  he 
becomes  a critic.  In  the  moment  in  which  the  skill  of  the 
artist  is  perceived,  the  spell  of  the  art  is  broken. 

These  considerations  account  for  the  absurdities  into 
which  the  greatest  wudters  have  fallen,  when  they  have  at- 
tempted to  give  general  rules  for  composition,  or  to  pro- 
nounce judgment  on  the  works  of  others.  They  are  unac- 
customed to  analyze  what  they  feel ; they,  therefore,  per- 
petually refer  their  emotions  to  causes  wdiich  have  not  in 
the  slightest  degree  tended  to  produce  them.  They  feel 
pleasure  in  reading  a book.  They  never  consider  that  this 
pleasure  may  be  the  effect  of  ideas  which  some  unmeaning 
expression,  striking  on  the  first  link  of  a chain  of  associa- 
tions, may  have  called  up  in  their  own  minds — that  they 
have  themselves  furnished  to  the  author  the  beauties  which 
they  admire. 

Cervantes  is  the  delight  of  all  classes  of  readers.  Every 
school-boy  thumbs  to  pieces  the  most  wretched  translations 
of  his  romance,  and  knows  the  lantern  jaws  of  the  Knight » 
Errant,  and  the  broad  cheeks  of  the  Squire,  as  well  as  the 
faces  of  his  own  playfellows.  The  most  experienced  and 
fastidious  judges  are  amazed  at  the  perfection  of  that  art 
wdiich  extracts  inextinguishable  laughter  from  the  greatest 
of  human  calamities  wdthout  once  violating  the  reverence 
due  .to  it ; at  that  discriminating  delicacy  of  touch  which 
makes  a character  exquisitely  ridiculous,  without  impairing 
its  w^orth,  its  grace,  or  its  dignity.  In  Don  Quixote  are 
several  dissertations  on  the  principles  of  poetic  and  dramatic 
writing.  Ko  passages  in  the  whole  work  exhibit  stronger 
marks  of  labor  and  attention  ; and  no  passages  in  any  work 
wdth  which  we  are  acquainted  are  more  worthless  and 
puerile.  In  our  time  they  would  scarcely  obtain  admittance 
into  the  literary  department  of  the  Morning  Post.  Every 
reader  of  the  Divine  Comedy  must  be  struck  by  the  venera- 
tion which  Dante  expresses  for  w riters  far  inferior  to  him- 
self. He  will  not  lift  up  his  eyes  from  the  ground  in  the 
presence  of  Brunetto,  all  whose  w^orks  are  not  worth  the 
worst  of  his  own  hundred  cantos.  He  does  not  venture  to 


JOIIX  DUVDEX* 


237 


walk  in  the  same  line  witli  the  bombastic  Statius.  Ilis  ad- 
miration of  Virgil  is  absolute  idolatry.  If  indeed  it  had 
been  excited  by  the  elegant,  splendid,  and  harmonious  dic- 
tion of  the  Roman  poet,  it  would  not  have  been  altogether 
unreasonable  ; but  it  is  rather  as  an  authority  on  all  points 
of  philosophy,  than  as  a work  of  imagination,  that  he  values 
the  ^neid.  Tlie  most  trivial  passages  he  regards  as  oracles 
of  the  highest  authority,  and  of  the  most  recondite  meaning. 
He  describes  his  conductor  as  the  sea  of  all  wisdom — the 
sun  which  heals  every  disordered  sight.  As  he  judged  of 
Virgil,  the  Italians  of  the  fourteenth  century  judged  of 
him ; they  were  proud  of  him ; they  praised  him ; they 
struck  medals  bearing  his  head  ; they  quarrelled  for  the 
honor  of  possessing  his  remains ; they  maintained  professors 
to  expound  his  writings.  But  what  they  admired  was  not 
that  mighty  imagination  which  called  a new  world  into 
existence,  and  made  all  its  sights  and  sounds  familiar  to  the 
eye  and  ear  of  the  mind.  They  said  little  of  those  awful 
and  lovely  creations  on  which  later  critics  delight  to  dwell — 
Farinata  lifting  his  haughty  and  tranquil  brow  from  his 
couch  of  everlasting  fire — the  lion-like  repose  of  Sordello — 
or  the  light  which  shone  from  the  celestial  smile  of  Beatrice. 
They  extolled  their  great  poet  for  his  smattering  of  ancient 
literature  and  history ; for  his  logic  and  his  divinity ; for 
his  absurd  physics,  and  his  more  absurd  metaphysics ; for 
every  thing  but  that  in  which  he  preeminently  excelledo 
Like  the  fool  in  the  story,  who  ruined  his  dwelling  by  dig- 
ging for  gold,  which,  as  he  had  dreamed,  was  concealed 
under  its  foundations,  they  laid  waste  one  of  the  noblest 
works  of  human  genius,  by  seeking  in  it  for  buried  treasures 
of  wisdom  which  existed  only  in  their  own  wild  reveries. 
The  finest  passages  were  little  valued  till  they  had  been 
debased  into  some  monstrous  allegory.  Louder  applause 
was  given  to  the  lecture  on  fate  and  free-will,  or  to  the 
ridiculous  astronomical  theories,  than  to  those  tremendous 
lines  which  disclose  the  secrets  of  the  tower  of  hunger,  or 
to  that  half-told  tale  of  guilty  love,  so  passionate  and  so  full 
of  tears. 

We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  contemporaries  of  Dante 
read  with  less  emotion  than  their  descendants  of  Uglino 
groping  among  the  wasted  corpses  of  his  children,  or  of 
Francesca  starting  at  the  tremulous  kiss  and  dropping  the 
fatal  volume.  Far  from  it.  We  believe  that  they  admired 
these  things  less  than  ourselves,  but  that  they  felt  them 


2B8  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS, 

more.  We  slioiild  ])ei*li<‘i])S  say  tliat  tliey  felttliem  too  much 
to  admire  tliem.  Tlie  })ro<^ress  of  a nation  from  barbarism 
to  civilization  })roduces  a change  similar  to  that  which  takes 
place  during  the  progress  of  an  individual  from  infancy  to 
mature  age.  What  man  docs  not  remember  with  regret 
tlie  first  time  that  lie  read  Robinson  Crusoe  ? Then,  indeed, 
he  Avas  mable  to  appreciate  the  jiowers  of  the  Avriter;  or, 
rather,  lie  neither  kneAV  nor  cared  Avhether  the  book  had  a 
writer  at  all.  He  ])robably  thought  it  not  half  so  fine  as 
some  rant  of  Macpherson  about  dark-browed  Foldatli,  and 
Avhite-bosonied  Strinadona.  He  noAV  A^alues  Fingal  and 
Temora  only  as  shoAving  Avith  hoAV  little  evidence  a story 
may  be  believed,  and  Avith  how  little  merit  a book  may  bo 
popular.  Of  the  romance  of  Defoe  he  entertains  the  highest 
opinion.  lie  perceives  the  hand  of  a master  in  ten  thousand 
touches  AAdiich  formerly  he  passed  by  Avithout  notice.  But, 
thougli  he  understands  the  merits  of  the  narrative  better 
than  formerly,  he  is  far  less  interested  by  it.  Xury  and 
Friday,  and  pretty  Poll,  the  boat  with  the  shoulder-of-mutton 
sail,  and  the  canoe  Avhich  could  not  be  brought  down  to  the 
water  edge,  the  tent  AAuth  its  hedge  and  ladders,  the  preserve 
of  kids,  and  the  den  Avhere  the  goat  died,  can  never  again 
be  to  him  the  realities  which  they  Avere.  The  days  Avhen 
his  favorite  volume  set  him  upon  making  wheei-barroAVS 
and  chairs,  upon  digging  caves  and  fencing  huts  in  the 
garden,  can  never  return.  Such  is  the  law  of  our  nature. 
Our  Judgment  ripens;  our  imagination  decays.  We  cannot 
at  once  enjoy  the  flowers  or  the  spring  of  life  and  the  fruits 
of  its  autumn,  the  i^leasures  of  close  investigation  and  those 
of  agreeable  error.  We  cannot  sit  at  once  in  the  front  of 
the  stage  and  behind  the  scenes.  We  cannot  be  under  the 
illusion  of  the  spectacle,  Avhile  Ave  are  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  ropes  and  pulleys  Avhich  dispose  it. 

The  chapter  in  Avhicli  Fielding  describes  the  behavior  of 
Partridge  at  the  theatre  affords  so  complete  an  illustration  of 
our  proposition,  that  we  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  some 
parts  of  it. 

“ Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr.  Garrick  which  he  had  denied  to  Jones, 
and  fed  into  so  violent  a trembling  that  his  knees  knocked  against  each 
otlier.  Jones  asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  and  whether  he  was  afraid  of 
the  warrior  upon  the  stage  ? — ‘ Oh,  la,  sir/  said  he,  ‘ I perceive  now  it  is 
what  :^ou  told  me.  I am  not  afraid  of  anything,  for  I know  it  is  but  a play  : 
and  if  it  was  really  a ghost,  it  could  do  one  no  liarm  at  such  a distance  and 
in  so  much  company  ; and  yet,  if  I was  frightened,  I am  not  the  only  per- 
son.’— ‘Why,  who,’  cries  Jones,  ‘dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a coward  here 
besides  thyself  ? ’ — ‘ Nay,  you  may  call  me  a coward  if  you  will ; but  if  that 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


239 


little  man  there  upon  the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I never  saw  any  man  fright- 
ened in  my  life.’  * * * He  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  partly  on  tlie  ghost  and 
partly  on  Hamlet,  and  with  his  mouth  open  ; the  same  passions  which 
succeeded  each  other  in  Hamlet,  succeeding  likewise  in  him.  * * * 

“ Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  during  the  play,  at  the  end  of 
which  Jones  asked  him  which  of  the  players  he  liked  best.  To  this  he  an- 
swered, with  some  appearance  of  indignation  at  the  question,  ‘The  King, 
\Tithout  doubt.’ — ‘ Indeed,  Mr.  Partridge,^  says  Mrs.  Miller,  ‘ you  are  not  of 
the  same  opinion  with  the  town  ; for  they  are  all  agreed  that  Hamlet  is  acted 
by  the  best  player  who  was  ever  on  the  stage.  ’ ‘ He  the  best  player ! ’ cries 

Prirtridge,  with  a contemptuous  sneer  ; ‘ why  I could  act  as  well  as  he  my- 
self. I am  sure,  if  I had  seen  a ghost,  I should  have  looked  in  the  very  same 
manner,  and  done  just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that  scene,  as 
you  called  it,  between  him  and  his  mother,  where  you  told  me  he  acted  so 
fine,  why,  any  man,  that  is,  any  good  man  that  had  such  a mother,  w^ould 
have  done  exactly  the  same.  I know  you  are  only  joking  with  me  ; but 
indeed,  madam,  though  I never  was  at  a play  in  London,  yeti  have  seen 
acting  before  in  the  country,  and  the  King,  for  my  money  ; he  speaks  all 
his  w^ords  distinctly,  and  half  as  loud  again  as  the  other.  Anybody  may 
see  he  is  an  actor.’  ” 

In  this  excellent  passage  Partridge  is  represented  as  a 
very  bad  theatrical  critic.  But  none  of  those  who  laugh  at 
him  possess  the  tithe  of  his  sensibility  to  theatrical  excel- 
lence. He  admires  in  the  wrong  place ; but  he  trembles  in 
the  right  place.  It  is  indeed  because  he  is  so  much  excited 
by  the  acting  of  Garrick,  that  he  ranks  him  below  the  strut- 
ting, mouthing  performer,  who  personates  the  King.  So, 
we  have  heard  it  said  that,  in  some  parts  of  Spain  and  Por- 
tugal, an  actor  who  should  represent  a depraved  character 
finely,  instead  of  calling  down  the  applauses  of  the  audience, 
is  hissed  and  pelted  without  mercy.  It  would  be  the  same 
in  England,  if  we,  for  one  moment,  thought  that  Shylock  or 
lago  was  standing  before  us.  While  the  dramatic  art  w^as 
in  its  infancy  at  Athens,  it  produced  similar  effects  on  the 
ardent  and  imaginative  spectators.  It  is  said  that  they 
blamed  ^schylus  for  frightening  them  into  fits  with  his 
Furies.  Herodotus  tells  us  that,  when  Phrynichus  pro- 
duced his  tragedy  on  the  fall  of  Miletus,  they  fined  him  in 
a penalty  of  a thousand  drachmas  for  torturing  their  feel- 
ings by  so  pathetic  an  exhibition.  They  did  not  regard  him 
as  a gi*eat  artist,  but  merely  as  a man  w^ho  had  given  them 
pain.  Whin  they  woke  from  the  distressing  illusion,  they 
treated  the  author  of  it  as  they  would  have  treated  a me&- 
^enger  who  should  have  brought  them  fatal  and  alarming 
tidings  which  turned  out  to  be  false.  In  the  same  manner, 
a child  screams  with  terror  at  the  sight  of  a person  in  an 
ugly  mask.  He  has  perhaps  seen  the  mask  put  on.  But  his 
imagirmtion  is  too  strong  ior  his  reason ; and  he  entreats 
that  iu  may  be  taken  oft. 


21U  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

We  should  act  in  the  same  manner  if  the  grief  and  hor- 
ror prodiKied  in  us  by  works  of  the  imagination  amounted 
to  real  torture.  But  in  us  these  emotions  are  comparatively 
languid.  They  rarely  affect  our  ap])etite  or  our  sleep. 
Tliey  leave  us  sufficiently  at  ease  to  trace  them  to  tlieir 
causes,  and  to  estimate  tlie  powers  which  produce  them. 
Our  attention  is  speedly  diverted  from  the  images  whicli  call 
forth  our  tears  to  the  art  by  which  those  images  have  bce« 
selected  and  combined.  We  applaud  the  genius  of  the 
writer.  We  applaud  our  own  sagacity  and  sensibility ; and 
we  are  comforted. 

Yet,  though  we  think  that  in  the  progress  of  nations  to- 
wards  refinement  the  reasoning  powers  are  improved  at  the 
expense  of  the  imagination,  we  acknowledge  that  to  this 
rule  there  are  many  apparent  exceptions.  W e are  not,  how- 
ever, quite  satisfied  that  they  are  more  than  apparent.  Men 
reasoned  better,  for  example,  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  than 
in  the  time  of  Egbert ; and  they  also  wrote  better  poetry. 
But  we  must  distinguish  between  poetry  as  a mental  act, 
and  poetry  as  a species  of  composition.  If  we  take  it  in 
the  latter  sense,  its  excellence  depends,  not  solely  on  the 
vigor  of  the  imagination,  but  partly  also  on  the  instruments 
which  the  imagination  employs.  Within  certain  limits, 
therefore,  poetry  may  be  improving  while  the  poetical 
faculty  is  decaying.  The  vividness  of  the  picture  pl'esented 
to  the  reader  is  not  necessarily  proportioned  to  the  vivid- 
ness of  the  prototype  which  exists  in  the  mind  of  the  waiter. 
In  the  other  arts  we  see  this  clearly.  Should  a man,  gifted 
by  nature  with  all  the  genius  of  Canova,  attempt  to  carve  a 
statue  without  instruction  as  to  the  management  of  his  chisel, 
or  attention  to  the  anatomy  of  the  human  body,  he  wou.d 
produce  something  compared  with  wliich  the  Highlander  at 
the  door  of  -a  snuff  shop  would  deserve  admiration.  If  an 
uninitiated  Raphael  were  to  attempt  a painting,  it  would  be 
a mere  daub  ; indeed,  the  connoisseurs  say  that  the  early 
vmrks  of  Raphael  are  little  better.  Yet,  who  can  attribute 
this  to  want  of  imagination?  Who  can  doubt  that  the 
youth  of  that  great  artist  was  passed  amidst  an  ideal  world 
of  beautiful  and  majestic  forms  ? Or,  who  vn'll  attribute 
the  difference  which  appears  between  his  first  rude  essays 
and  his  magnificent  Transfiguration  to  a change  in  the  con- 
stitution of  his  mind  ? In  poetry,  as  in  painting  and  sculp- 
ture, it  is  necessary  that  the  imitator  should  be  well  ao 
quainied  with  that  which  he  undertakes  to  imitate>  and  ex« 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


24J 


pert  in  the  mechanical  part  of  his  art.  Genius  will  not 
furnish  him  with  a vocabulary  : it  will  not  teach  him  what 
word  most  exactly  corresponds  to  his  idea,  and  will  most 
fully  convey  it  to  others : it  will  not  make  him  a great  de- 
scriptive poet,  till  he  has  looked  with  attention  on  the  face 
of  nature  ; or  a great  dramatist,  till  he  has  felt  and  witnessed 
much  of  the  inlluence  of  the  passions.  Information  and 
experience  arc,  therefore,  necessary ; not  for  the  purpose  of 
strengthening  the  imagination,  which  is  never  so  strong  as 
in  people  incapable  of  reasoning — savages,  children,  mad- 
men, and  dreamers ; but  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  the 
artist  to  communicate  his  conceptions  to  others. 

In  a barbarous  age  the  imagination  exercises  a despotic 
power.  So  strong  is  the  perception  of  what  is  unreal  that 
it  often  overpowers  all  the  passions  of  the  mind  and  all  the 
sensations  of  the  body.  At  first,  indeed,  the  phantasm  re- 
mains undivulged,  a hidden  treasure,  a wordless  poetry,  an 
invisible  painting,  a silent  music,  a dream  of  which  the  pains 
and  pleasures  exist  to  the  dreamer  alone,  a bitterness  which 
the  heart  only  knoweth,  a joy  with  which  a stranger  inter- 
meddleth  not.  The  machinery,  by  which  ideas  are  to  be 
conveyed  from  one  person  to  another,  is  as  yet  rude  and  de- 
fective. Between  mind  and  mind  there  is  a great  gulf.  The 
imitative  arts  do  not  exist,  or  are  in  their  lowest  state.  But 
the  actions  of  men  amply  prove  that  the  faculty  which  gives 
birth  to  those  arts  is  morbidly  active.  It  is  not  yet  the  in- 
spiration of  poets  and  sculptors  ; but  it  is  the  amusement  of 
the  day,  the  terror  of  the  night,  the  fertile  source  of  wild 
superstitions.  It  turns  the  clouds  into  gigantic  shapes,  and 
the  winds  into  doleful  A^oices.  The  belief  which  springs 
from  it  is  more  absolute  and  undoubting  than  any  which  can 
be  derived  from  evidence.  It  resembles  the  faith  which  we 
repose  in  our  OAvn  sensations.  Thus,  the  Arab,  Avhen  covered 
with  wounds,  saw  nothing  but  the  dark  eyes  and  the  green 
kerchief  of  a beckoning  Houri.  The  Northern  warrior 
laughed  in  the  pangs  of  death  when  he  thought  of  the  mead 
of  Valhalla. 

The  first  works  of  the  imagination  are,  as  we  have  said, 
poor  and  rude,  not  from  the  want  of  genius,  but  from  the 
want  of  materials.  Phidias  could  have  done  nothing  with 
an  old  tree  and  a fish-bone,  or  Homer  with  the  language  of 
Ncav  Holland. 

Yet  the  effect  of  these  early  performances,  imperfect  as 
they  must  necessarily  be,  is  immensci  All  deficiencies  are 


242  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

fiiipplied  by  llie  susceptibility  of  those  to  wliom  they  are  ad. 
dressed.  We  all  know  what  j)leasure  a wooden  doll,  wliich 
may  be  bought  for  six])ence,  will  afford  to  a little  girl.  She 
will  require  no  other  company.  She  will  nurse  it,  dress  it, 
and  talk  to  it  all  day.  No  grown-up  man  takes  half  so  much 
delight  in  one  of  the  incomparable  babies  of  Chantrey.  In 
the  same  manner,  savages  are  more  affected  by  the  rude 
compositions  of  their  bards  than  nations  more  advanced  in 
civilization  by  the  greatest  master-pieces  of  poetry. 

In  process  of  time,  the  instruments  by  which  the  im- 
agination works  are  brought  to  perfection.  Men  have  not 
more  imagination  than  their  rude  ancestors.  We  strongly 
sus])ect  that  they  have  much  less.  But  they  produce  better 
works  of  imagination.  Thus,  up  to  a certain  period,  the  dim- 
inution of  the  poetical  powers  is  faf  more  than  compensated 
by  the  improvement  of  all  the  appliances  and  means  of  which 
those  powers  stand  in  need.  Then  comes  the  short  j^eriod  of 
splendid  and  consummate  excellence.  And  then,  from  causes 
against  which  it  is  vain  to  struggle,  j)oetry  begins  to  decline. 
The  progress  of  language,  which  was  at  first  favorable,  be- 
comes fatal  to  it,  and,  instead  of  compensating  for  the  decay 
of  the  imagination,  accelerates  that  decay,  and  renders  it  more 
obvious.  When  the  adventurer  in  the  Arabian  tale  anointed 
one  of  his  eyes  with  the  contents  of  the  magical  box,  all  the 
riches  of  the  earth,  however  widely  dispersed,  however 
sacredly  concealed,  became  visible  to  him.  But,  when  he 
tried  the  experiment  on  both  eyes,  he  was  struck  with  blind- 
ness. What  the  enchanted  elixir  was  to  the  sight  of  the 
body,  language  is  to  the  sight  of  the  imagination.  At  first 
it  calls  up  a world  of  glorious  illusions ; but,  when  it  be- 
comes too  copious,  it  altogether  destroys  the  visual  power. 

As  the  development  of  the  mind  proceeds,  symbols,  in- 
stead of  being  employed  to  convey  images,  are  substituted 
for  them.  Civilized  men  think  as  they  trade,  not  in  kind, 
but  by  means  of  a circulating  medium.  In  these  circum- 
stances, the  sciences  improve  rapidly,  and  criticism  among 
the  rest ; but  poetry,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  dis- 
appears. Then  comes  the  dotage  of  the  fine  arts,  a second 
childhood,  as  feeble  as  the  former,  and  far  more  hopeless. 
This  is  the  age  of  critical  poetry,  of  jDoetry  by  courtesy,  of 
poetry  to  which  the  memory,  the  judgment,  and  the  wit  con- 
tribute far  more  than  the  imagination.  We  readily  allow 
that  many  works  of  this  description  are  excellent : we  wdll 
not  contend  with  those  who  think  them  more  valuable  than 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


243 


the  poems  of  an  earlier  period.  We  only  maintain 

that  they  belong  to  different  species  of  composition,  and  are 
produced  by  a different  faculty. 

It  is  some  consolation  to  reflect  that  this  critical  school 
of  poetry  improves  as  the  science  of  criticism  improves ; 
and  that  the  science  of  criticism,  like  every  other  science, 
is  constantly  tending  towards  perfection.  As  experiments 
are  multiplied,  principles  are  better  understood. 

In  some  countries,  in  our  own,  for  example,  there  has 
been  an  interval  between  the  downfall  of  the  creative 
school  and  the  rise  of  the  critical,  a period  during  which 
imagination  has  been  in  its  decrepitude,  and  taste  in  its  in- 
fancy. Such  a revolutionary  interregnum  as  tliis  will  be 
deformed  by  every  species  of  extravagance. 

The  first  victory  of  good  taste  is  over  the  bombast  and 
conceits  which  deform  such  times  as  these.  But  criticism 
is  still  in  a very  imperfect  state.  What  is  accidental  is  for 
a long  tme  confounded  with  what  is  essential.  General 
theories  are  drawn  from  detached  facts.  How  many  hours 
the  action  of  a play  may  be  allowed  to  occupy, — how  many 
similes  an  Epic  Poet  may  introduce  into  his  first  book, — 
whether  a i3iece,  which  is  acknowledged  to  have  a begin- 
ning and  an  end,  may  not  be  without  a middje,  and  other 
questions  as  puerile  as  these,  formerly  occupied  the  atten- 
tion of  men  of  letters  in  France,  and  even  in  this  country. 
Poets,  in  such  circumstances  as  these,  exhibit  all  the  narrow- 
ness and  feebleness  of  the  criticism  by  which  their  manner 
has  been  fashioned.  From  outrageous  absurdity  they  are 
preserved  indeed  by  theii*  timidity.  But  they  perpetually 
sacrifice  nature  and  reason  to  arbitrary  canons  of  taste. 
In  their  eagerness  to  avoid  the  mala  prohibita  of  a foolish 
code,  they  are  perpetually  rusliing  on  the  mala  m se.  Their 
great  predecessors,  it  is  true,  were  as  bad  critics  as  them- 
selves, or  perhaps  worse : but  those  predecessors,  as  we 
fiave  attempted  to  show,  w^ere  inspired  by  a faculty  in- 
de])endent  of  criticism,  and,  therefore,  wrote  well  while  they 
hidged  ill.  - 

In  time  men  begin  to  take  more  rational  and  comprehen- 
sive vieAvs  of  literature.  The  analysis  of  poetry,  which,  as 
we  have  remarked,  must  at  best  be  imperfect,  approaches 
nearer  and  nearer  to  exactness.  The  merits  of  the  wondei- 
ful  models  of  former  times  are  justly  appreciated.  The 
frigid  productions  of  a later  age  are  rated  at  no  more  than 
their  proper  value.  Pleasing  and  ingenious  imitations  of 


244  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wuitings. 

the  manner  of  tiie  great  masters  appear.  Poetry  has  a 
partial  revival,  a Saint  Martin’s  Summer,  whiclt,  after  a 
period  of  dreariness  and  decay,  agi-eeably  reminds  us  of  the 
splendor  of  its  June.  A second  harvest  is  gathered  in  ; 
though,  growing  on  a spent  soil,  it  has  not  the  heart  of  the 
former.  Thus,  in  the  present  age,  Monti  has  successfully 
imitated  the  style  of  Dante ; and  something  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan inspiration  has  been  caught  by  several  eminent  coun- 
trymen of  our  own.  But  never  will  Italy  produce  another 
Inferno,  or  England  another  Hamlet.  We  look  on  the  beau- 
ties of  the  modern  imitations  with  feelings  similar  to  those 
with  which  we  see  flowers  disposed  in  vases,  to  ornament 
the  drawing-rooms  of  a capital.  We  doubtless  regard  them 
with  pleasure,  with  greater  pleasure,  perhaps,  because,  in 
the  midst  of  a place  ungenial  to  them,  they  remind  us  of 
the  distant  spots  on  which  they  flourish  in  spontaneous  ex- 
uberance. But  we  miss  the  sap,  the  freshness  and  the  bloom. 
Or,  if  we  may  borrow  another  illustration  from  Queen  Sche- 
herezade,  we  would  compare  the  writers  of  this  school  to 
the  jewellers  who  were  employed  to  complete  the  unfinished 
window  of  the  palace  of  Aladdin.  Whatever  skill  or  cost 
could  do  was  done.  Palace  and  bazaar  were  ransacked  for  pre- 
cious stones.  "Yet  the  artists,  with  all  their  dexterity,  with 
all  their  assiduity,  and  with  all  their  vast  means,  were  un- 
able to  produce  anything  comparable  to  the  wonders  which 
a spirit  of  a higher  order  had  wrought  in  a single  night. 

The  history  of  every  literature  with  which  we  are  ac- 
quainted confirms,  we  think,  the  principles  which  we  have 
laid  down.  In  Greece  we  see  the  imaginative  school  of  poe- 
try gradually  fading  into  the  critical,  ^schylus  and  Pin- 
dar were  succeeded  by  Sophocles,  Sophocles  by  Euripides, 
Euripides  by  the  Alexandrian  v^ersifiers.  Of  these  last, 
Theocritus  alone  has  left  compositions  which  deserve  to  be 
read.  The  splendor  and  grotesque  fairyland  of  the  Old 
Comedy,  rich  with  such  gorgeous  hues,  peopled  with  such 
fantastic  shapes,  and  vocal  alternately  with  the  sweetest 
peals  of  music  and  the  loudest  bursts  of  elvish,  laughter, 
disappeared  for  ever.  The  master-pieces  of  the  New  Coni- 
ody  are  known  to  us  by  Latin  translations  of  extraordi- 
nary merit.  From  these  translations,  and  from  the  expres- 
sions of  the  ancient  critics,  it  is  clear  that  the  original  com- 
positions were  distinguished  by  grace  and  sweetness,  that 
they  sparkled  with  wit,  and  abounded  with  pleasing  sen- 
timent; but  that  the  creative  power  was  gone.  Julius 


JOHN  DKVDEN. 


246 


(/a3sar  called  Terence  a half  Menander, — a sure  proof  that 
Menander  was  not  a quarter  Aristophanes. 

The  literature  of  the  Romans  was  merely  a contin nation 
of  the  literature  of  the  Greeks.  The  pupils  started  from 
the  point  at  which  their  masters  had,  in  the  course  of  many 
generations,  arrived.  They  thus  almost  wholly  missed  the 
period  of  original  invention.  The  only  Latin  ])oets  whose 
writings  exhibit  much  vigor  of  imagination  are  Lucretius 
an  1 Catullus.  The  Augustan  age  produced  nothing  equal 
to  their  liner  passages. 

In  France,  that  licensed  jester,  whose  jingling  cap  and 
motley  coat  concealed  more  genius  than  ever  mustered  in 
the  saloon  of  Ninon  or  of  Madame  Geoffrin,  was  succeeded 
by  writers  as  decorous  and  as  tiresome  as  gentlemen-ushers. 

Tlie  poetry  of  Italy  and  of  Spain  has  undergone  the 
same  change,  lint  nowhere  has  the  revolution  been  moi’e 
complete  and  violent  than  in  England.  The  same  person, 
who,  when  a boy,  had  clapped  his  thrilling  hands  at  the 
first  representation  of  the  Tempest  might,  without  attaining 
to  a marvellous  longevity,  have  livjd  to  read  the  earlier 
woi  ks  of  Prior  and  Addison.  The  change,  we  believe,  must, 
sooner  or  later,  have  taken  place.  But  its  progress  was  ac- 
celerated, and  its  character  modified,  by  the  political  occur- 
rences of  the  times,  and  particularly  by  two  events,  the 
closing  of  the  theatres  under  the  commonwealth,  and  the 
restoration  of  the  House  of  Stuart. 

We  have  said  that  the  critical  and  poetical  faculties  are 
not  only  distinct,  but  almost  incompatible.  The  state  of 
our  literature  during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  the 
First  is  a strong  confirmation  of  this  remark.  The  greatest 
works  of  imagination  that  the  world  has  ever  seen  were 
produced  at  that  period.  The  national  taste,  in  the  mean 
time,  was  to  the  last  degree  detestable.  Alliterations,  puns, 
antithetical  forms  of  expression  lavishly  employed  where 
no  corresponding  opposition  existed  between  the  thoughts 
oxj)ressed,  strained  allegories,  pedantic  allusions,  everything, 
in  short,  quaint  and  affected,  in  matter  and  manner,  made 
up  what  was  then  considered  as  fine  writing.  The  elo- 
quence of  the  bar,  the  pulpit,  and  the  council-board,  was 
deformed  by  conceits  which  would  have  disgraced  the 
rhyming  shepherds  of  an  Italian  academy.  The  king  quib- 
bled on  the  throne.  We  might,  indeed,  console  ourselves 
by  reflecting  that  his  majesty  was  a fool.  But  the  chancel- 
lor quibbled  in  concert  from  the  wool-sack;  and  the  cham 


MACAULAY'B  JriSCKLLAXEOUS  WKITTNGB. 


Ufj 

collor  was  Francis  l^acon.  Tt  is  needless  to  mention  Sidney 
and  the  wliole  tribe  of  Fupliiiists  ; for  8iiaks])eare  liini- 
self,  the  greatest  ])oet  that  ever  lived,  falls  into  the  same 
fault  whenever  lie  means  to  be  ])articularly  fine.  While  ho 
abandons  himself  to  the  impulse  of  his  imagination,  liis 
com])Ositions  are  not  only  the  sweetest  and  tlie  most  sub- 
lime, but  also  the  most  faultless,  that  the  world  has  ever 
ocen.  Ibit,  as  soon  as  his  critical  jiowers  come  into  play,  he 
inks  to  the  level  of  Cowley;  or  rather  lie  does  ill  what 
CowU‘y  did  well.  All  that  is  bad  in  his  works  is  bad  elab- 
orately, and  of  malice  aforethought.  The  only  thing  want- 
ing to  make  them  perfect  was,  that  he  should  never  have 
troubled  himself  with  thinking  whether  they  were  good 
cr  not.  Like  the  angels  in  Milton,  he  sinks  “with  coin- 
pulsion  and  laborious  flight.”  Ilis  natural  tendency  is  up- 
wards. That  lie  may  soar,  it  is  only  necessary  that  ho 
should  not  struggle  to  fall.  lie  resembles  an  American 
Cacique,  who  possessing  in  unmeasured  abundance  the 
metals  wdiich  in  polished  societies  are  esteemed  the  most 
precious,  was  utterly  unconscious  of  their  value,  and  gave 
up  treasures  more  valuable  than  the  imperial  crowns  of 
other  countries,  to  secure  some  gaudy  and  far-fetched  but 
worthless  bauble,  a jdated  button,  or  a necklace  of  colored 
glass. 

We  have  attempted  to  show  that,  as  knowledge  is  ex- 
tended and  as  the  reason  developes  itself,  the  imitative  arts 
decay.  We  should,  therefore,  expect  that  the  corruption 
of  poetry  would  commence  in  the  educated  classes  of  soci- 
ety. And  tliis,  in  fact,  is  almost  constantly  the  case.  The 
few  great  works  of  imagination  which  ap])ears  in  a critical 
age  are,  almost  without  excej^tion,  the  works  of  uneducated 
men.  Thus,  at  a time  when  persons  of  quality  translated 
French  romances,  and  when  the  universities  celebrated  royal 
deaths  in  verses  about  tritons  and  fauns,  a preaching  tmker 
produced  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  And  thus  a ploughman 
startled  a generation  which  had  thought  ITayley  and  Beattie 
groat  poets,  with  the  adventures  of  Tam  O’Shanter.  Evcii 
hi  the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  the  fashionable 
poetry  had  degenerated.  It  retained  few  vestiges  of  the 
imagination  of  earlier  times.  It  had  not  yet  been  subjected 
to  the  rules  of  good  taste.  Affectation  liad  completely 
tainted  madrigals  and  sonnets.  The  grotesque  conceits  and 
the  tuneless  numbers  of  Douiie  wore,  in  the  time  of  James, 
the  favorite  models  of  composition  at  Whitehall  and  at  the 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


247 


Temple.  But,  though  tlic  literature  of  the  Court  was  in 
its  decay,  the  literature  of  the  people  was  in  its  perfection. 
The  Muses  had  taken  sanctuary  in  the  theatres,  the  haunts 
of  a class  whose  taste  was  not  better  than  that  of  the  Right 
TIonorables  and  singular  good  Lords  who  admired  metaphys- 
ical love-verses,  but  whose  imagination  retained  all  its  fresh- 
ness and  vigor ; whose  censure  and  approbation  might  be 
erroneously  bestowed,  but  whose  tears  and  laughter  were 
never  in  the  wrong.  The  infection  which  had  tainted  lyric 
and  didactic  poetry  had  but  slightly  and  partially  touched 
the  drama.  While  the  noble  and  the  learned  were  compar- 
ing eyes  to  burning-glasses,  and  tears  to  terrestrial  globes, 
coyness  to  an  enthymeme,  absence  to  a pair  of  com- 
passes, and  an  unrequited  passion  to  the  fortieth  remainder- 
man in  an  entail,  Juliet  leaning  from  the  balcony,  and 
Miranda  smiling  over  the  chess-board,  sent  home  many 
spectators,  as  kind  and  simple-hearted  as  the  master  and 
mistress  of  Fletcher’s  Ralpho,  to  cry  themselves  to  sleep. 

No  species  of  fiction  is  so  delightful  to  us  as  the  old 
English  drama.  Even  its  inferior  productions  possess  a 
charm  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  kind  of  poetry.  It  is 
the  most  lucid  mirror  that  ever  was  held  up  to  nature.  The 
creations  of  the  great  dramatists  of  Athens  produce  the 
effect  of  magnificent  sculptures,  conceived  by  a mighty  im- 
agination, polished  with  the  utmost  delicacy,  embodying 
ideas  of  ineffable  majesty  and  beauty,  but  cold,  pale,  and 
rigid,  with  no  bloom  on  the  cheek,  and  no  speculation  in  the 
eye.  In  all  the  draperies,  the  figures,  and  the  faces,  in  the 
lovers  and  the  tyrants,  the  Bacchanals  and  the  Furies,  there 
is  the  same  marble  chillness  and  deadness.  Most  of  the 
characters  of  the  French  stage  resemble  the  waxen  gentle- 
men and  ladies  in  the  window  of  a perfumer,  rouged,  curled, 
and  bedizened,  but  fixed  in  such  stiff  attitudes,  and  staring 
wfith  eyes  expressive  of  such  utter  unmeaningness,  that  they 
cannot  produce  an  illusion  for  a single  moment.  In  the 
English  plays  alone  is  to  be  found  the  warmth,  the  mellow- 
ness, and  the  reality  of  painting.  We  know  the  minds  of 
the  men  and  women,  as  we  know  the  faces  of  the  men  and 
women  of  Vandyke. 

The  excellence  of  these  works  is  in  a great  measure  the 
result  of  two  peculiarities,  which  the  critics  of  the  French 
school  consider  as  defects, — from  the  mixture  of  tragedy 
and  comedy,  and  from  the  length  and  extent  of  the  action 
The  former  is  necessary  to  render  the  drama  a just  repro 


24b  Macaulay’s  mscELLANEOUs  writings. 

sentation  of  a world  in  wliicli  llic  lauglicrs  and  the  weepers 
are  perpetually  jostling  each  other, — in  Avhich  every  event 
has  its  s(*rious  and  ludicrous  side.  The  latter  enables  us  to 
form  an  intimate  accpiaintance  with  characters  with  which 
we  could  not  possibly  become  familiar  during  the  few  hours 
to  which  the  unities  restrict  the  poet.  In  this  resf)ect,  the 
works  of  Shakspeare,  in  j)articular,  arc  miracles  of  art.  In  a 
piece,  which  may  be  read  aloud  in  three  hours,  we  see  a char- 
acter gradually  unfold  all  its  recesses  to  us.  We  see  it  change 
with  the  change  of  circumstances.  The  petulant  youth  rises 
into  the  politic  and  warlike  sovereign.  The  profuse  and 
courteous  philanthropist  sours  into  a hater  and  scorner  of  his 
kind.  The  tyrant  is  altered,  by  the  chastening  of  affliction, 
into  a pensive  moralist.  The  veteran  general,  distinguished 
by  coolness,  sagacity,  and  self-command,  sinks  under  a conflict 
between  love  strong  as  death,  and  jealousy  cruel  as  the  grave. 
The  brave  and  loyal  subject  passes,  step  by  step,  to  the  ex- 
tremities of  human  depravity.  We  trace  his  j)rogress,  from 
the  first  dawnings  of  unlawful  ambition  to  the  cynical  melan- 
choly of  his  impenitent  remorse.  Yet,  in  these  pieces,  there 
are  no  unnatural  transitions.  Nothing  is  omitted : nothing 
is  crowded.  Great  as  are  the  changes,  narrow  as  is  the  com- 
pass within  which  they  are  exhibited,  they  shock  us  as  little 
as  the  gradual  alterations  of  those  familiar  faces  which  we 
see  CA^ery  evening  and  every  morning.  The  magical  skill  of 
the  poet  resembles  that  of  the  Dervise  in  the  Spectator,  who 
condensed  all  the  eA^ents  of  seA^en  years  into  the  single  mo- 
ment during  Avhich  the  king  held  his  head  under  the  Avater. 

It  is  deserving  of  remark,  that,  at  the  time  of  Avhich  we 
speak,  the  plays  eA-en  of  men  not  eminently  distinguished 
by  genius, — such,  for  example,  as  J onson, — Avere  far  superior 
to  the  best  works  of  imagination  in  other  departments. 
Therefore,  though  we  conceive  that,  from  causes  Avhich  we 
liaA'O  already  investigated,  our  poetry  must  necessarily  have 
declined,  Ave  think  that,  unless  its  fate  had  been  accelerated 
by  external  attacks,  it  might  have  enjoyed  an  euthanasia, 
that  genius  might  haA^e  been  kept  alive  by  the  drama  till  its 
place  could,  in  some  degree,  be  supplied  by  taste, — that  there 
would  have  been  scarcely  any  interval  betAveen  the  age  of 
sublime  invention  and  that  of  agreeable  imitation.  The 
works  of  Shakspeare,  which  Avere  not  appreciated  with  any 
degree  of  justice  before  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, might  then  have  been  the  recognized  standards  of  ex- 
cellence during  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth ; and  he 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


249 


and  the  great  Elizabethan  writers  miglit  have  been  almost 
immediately  succeeded  by  a generation  of  poets  similar  to 
those  Avho  adorn  our  own  times. 

But  the  Puritans  drove  imagination  from  its  last  asylum. 
Tliey  prohibited  theatrical  representations,  and  stigmatized 
the  whole  race  of  dramatists  as  enemies  of  morality  and  re- 
ligion. Much  that  is  objectionable  may  be  found  in  the 
writers  whom  they  reprobated;  but  whether  they  took  the 
best  measures  for  stopping  the  evil  appears  to  us  very  doubt- 
ful, and  must,  we  tliink,  have  appeared  doubtful  to  them- 
selves, when,  after  the  lapse  of  a few  years,  they  saw  the 
unclean  spirit  whom  they  had  cast  out  return  to  his  old 
haunts,  with  seven  others  fouler  than  himself. 

By  the  extinction  of  the  drama,  the  fashionable  school 
of  poetry, — a school  wdtliout  truth  of  sentiment  or  harmony 
of  versification, — without  the  powers  of  an  earlier,  or  the 
correctness  of  a later  age, — was  left  to  enjoy  undisputed  as- 
cendency. A vicious  ingenuity,  a morbid  quickness  to  per- 
ceive resemblances  and  analogies  between  things  apparently 
lieterogeneous,  constituted  almost  its  only  claim  to  admira- 
tion. Suckling  was  dead.  Milton  was  absorbed  in  political 
and  theological  controversy.  If  Waller  differed  from  the 
Cowleian  sect  of  writers,  he  differed  for  the  worse.  He 
had  as  little  poetry  as  they,  and  much  less  wit ; nor  is  the 
languor  of  his  verses  less  offensive  than  the  ruggedness  of 
theirs.  In  Dedham  alone  the  faint  dawn  of  a better  manner 
was  discernible. 

But,  low  as  was  the  state  of  our  poetry  during  the  civil 
wat  and  the  Protectorate,  a still  deeper  fall  was  at  hand. 
Hitherto  our  literature  had  been  idiomatic.  In  mind  as  in 
situation  we  had  been  islanders.  The  revolutions  in 
our  taste,  like  the  revolutions  in  our  government,  had 
been  settled  without  the  interference  of  strangers.  Had 
this  state  of  things  continued,  the  same  just  principles 
of  reasoning  which,  about  this  time,  were  applied  with 
unprecedented  success  to  every  part  of  philosophy  would 
soon  have  conducted  our  ancestors  to  a sounder  code  of 
criticism.  There  were  already  strong  signs  of  improve- 
ment. Our  prose  had  at  length  worked  itself  clear  from 
those  quaint  conceits  which  still  deformed  almost  every 
metrical  composition.  The  parliamentary  debates,  and  the 
diplomatic  correspondence  of  that  eventful  period,  had  con- 
tributed much  to  this  reform.  In  such  bustling  times,  it  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  speak  and  write  to  the  purpose.  The 


fSO 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


absurdities  of  Puritanism  liad,  porliaps,  done  more.  At  the 
time  wdien  tliat  odious  style,  which  deforms  the  writings  of 
Hall  and  of  Lord  Bacon,  was  almost  universal,  liad  ap- 
peared that  stupendous  work,  the  Englisli  Bible, — a book 
which,  if  everything  else  in  our  language  should  perish, 
would  alone  suffice  to  show  the  whole  extent  of  its  beauty 
and  ])owcr.  The  respect  which  the  translators  felt  for  tlio 
original  prevented  them  from  adding  any  of  the  hideous 
decorations  then  in  fashion.  The  ground-work  of  the  ver- 
sion, indeed,  was  of  an  earlier  age.  The  familiarity  with 
wdiich  the  Puritans,  on  almost  every  occasion,  used  the 
Scriptural  phrases  was  no  doubt  very  ridiculous;  but  it 
produced  good  effects.  It  was  a cant ; but  it  drove  out  a 
cant  far  more  offensive. 

The  highest  kind  of  poetry  i3,  in  a great  measure,  inde- 
pendent of  those  circumstances  which  regulate  the  style  of 
composition  in  prose.  But  with  that  inferior  species  of 
poetry  Avhicli  succeeds  to  it  the  case  is  widely  different.  In 
a few  years,  the  good  sense  and  good  taste  which  had  weeded 
out  affectation  from  moral  and  political  treatises  3vould,  in 
the  natural  course  of  things,  have  effected  a similar  reform 
in  the  sonnet  and  the  ode.  The  rigor  of  the  victorious  sec- 
taries had  relaxed.  A dominant  religion  is  never  ascetic. 
The  Government  connived  at  theatrical  representations. 
The  influence  of  Shakspeare  was  once  more  felt.  But 
darker  days  were  ap23roaching.  A foreign  yoke  was  to  be 
imposed  on  our  literature.  Charles,  surrounded  by  the  com- 
panions of  his  long  exile,  returned  to  govern  a nation  which 
ought  never  to  have  cast  him  out  or  never  to  have  received 
liim  back.  Every  year  wdiich  he  had  passed  among  strangers 
had  rendered  him  more  unfit  to  rule  his  countrymen.  In 
France  he  had  seen  the  refractory  magistracy  humbled,  and 
royal  prerogative,  though  exercised  by  a foreign  priest  in 
the  name  of  a child,  victorious  over  all  opposition.  This 
spectacle  naturally  gratified  a prince  to  whose  family  the 
opposition  of  Parliaments  had  been  so  fatal.  Politeness 
was  his  solitary  good  quality.  The  insults  wffiich  he  had 
suffered  in  Scotland  had  taught  him  to  prize  it.  The  effemi- 
nacy and  apathy  of  his  disposition  fitted  him  to  excel  in  it. 
The  elegance  and  vivacity  of  the  French  manners  fascinated 
him.  With  the  political  maxims  and  the  social  habits  of 
his  favorite  people,  he  adopted  their  taste  in  composition, 
and,  wdien  seated  on  the  throne,  soon  rendered  it  fashionable, 
j)urtly  by  direct  patronage,  but  still  more  by  that  contempt- 


JOHN  DKYDEN. 


251 


aole  policy  which,  for  a time,  made  England  the  last  of  the 
nations,  and  raised  Louis  the  Fourteenth  to  a height  of 
[)Ower  and  fame,  such  as  no  French  sovereign  had  ever  be- 
fore attained. 

It  Avas  to  please  Charles  that  rhyme  was  first  introduced 
into  our  plays.  Thus,  a rising  blow,  which  would  at  any 
time  have  been  mortal,  was  dealt  to  the  English  Drama,  tlien 
just  recovering  from  its  languishing  condition.  Tv/o  dclos^ 
table  manners,  the  indigenous  and  the  imported,  were  now 
in  a state  of  alternate  conflict  and  amalgamation.  The  bom* 
bastic  meanness  of  the  new  style  was  blended  with  the  in 
genious  absurdity  of  the  old;  and  the  mixture  produced 
something  which  the  world  had  never  before  seen,  and 
which,  we  hope,  it  will  never  see  again, — something,  by  the 
side  of  which  the  worst  nonsense  of  all  other  ages  appears 
to  advantage, — something,  which  those  wLio  have  attempted 
to  caricature  it  have,  against  their  will,  been  forced  to  flatter, 
— of  which  the  tragedy  of  Bayes  is  a very  favorable  speci- 
men. What  Lord  Dorset  observed  to  Edw^ard  Howard 
might  have  been  addressed  to  almost  all  his  contempora- 
ries : — 

“ As  skilful  divers  to  the  bo  ttom  fall 
Swifter  than  those  who  cannot  swim  at  all ; 

So,  in  this  way  of  writing  without  thinking, 

Thou  hast  a strange  alacrity  in  sinking/* 

From  this  reproach  some  clever  men  of  the  world  must 
be  excepted,  and  among  them  Dorset  himself.  Though  by 
no  means  great  poets,  or  even  good  versifiers,  they  always 
wrote  with  meaning,  and  sometimes  with  wit.  Nothing  in- 
deed more  strongly  shows  to  wdiat  a miserable  state  litera- 
ture had  fallen,  than  the  immense  superiority  which  the  oc- 
casional rhymes,  carelessly  thrown  on  paper  by  men  of  this 
class,  possess  over  the  elaborate  productions  of  almost  all 
the  professed  authors.  The  reigning  taste  w^as  so  bad,  that 
the  success  of  a writer  was  in  inverse  proportion  to  his  la- 
bor, and  to  his  desire  of  excellence.  An  exception  must  be 
made  for  Butler,  w'ho  had  as  much  Avit  and  learning  as  Cow- 
ley, and  who  know,  what  CoAvley  never  knew,  how  to  use 
them.  A great  command  of  good  homely  English  distin- 
guishes him  still  more  from  the  other  writers  of  the  time. 
As  for  Gondibert,  those  may  criticise  it  who  can  read  it. 
Imagination  was  extinct.  Taste  Avas  depraved.  Poetry, 
driven  from  palaces,  colleges,  and  theatres,  had  found  an 
asylum  in  the  obscure  dwelling  Avhere  a Great  Man,  born  out 


25‘J  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WUITINGS. 

of  due  season,  in  disgrace,  penury,  pain,  and  blindness,  still 
kept  uncontaminatcd  a character  and  a genius  worthy  of  a 
better  age. 

Everything  about  Milton  is  wonderful ; but  nothing  is  so 
wonderful  as  tliat,  in  an  age  so  unfavorable  to  poetry,  he 
should  have  produced  tlie  greatest  of  modern  epic  poems. 
Wo  are  not  sure  that  this  is  not  in  some  degree  to  be  at- 
tributed to  his  want  of  sight.  The  imagination  is  notori- 
ously most  active  when  the  external  world  is  shut  out.  In 
sleep  its  illusions  are  perfect.  They  produce  all  the  effect 
of  realities.  In  darkness  its  visions  are  always  more  distinct 
than  in  the  light.  Every  person  who  amuses  himself  with 
what  is  called  building  castles  in  the  air  must  have  experi- 
enced this.  We  know  artists  who,  before  they  attempt  to 
draw  a face  from  memory,  close  their  eyes,  that  they  may 
recall  a more  perfect  image  of  the  features  and  the  expres- 
sion. We  are  therefore  inclined  to  believe  that  the  genius 
of  Milton  may  have  been  preserved  from  the  influence  of 
times  so  unfavorable  to  it  by  his  infirmity.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  his  works  at  first  enjoyed  a very  small  share  of  popu- 
larity. To  be  neglected  by  his  contemporaries  was  the  pen- 
alty which  he  paid  for  surpassing  them.  His  great  poem 
was  not  generally  studied  or  admired  till  writers  far  inferior 
to  him  had,  by  obsequiously  cringing  to  the  public  taste, 
acquired  sufficient  favor  to  reform  it. 

Of  these,  Dryden  was  the  most  eminent.  Amidst  the 
crowd  of  authors  who,  during  the  earlier  years  of  Charles 
the  Second,  courted  notoriety  by  every  species  of  absurdity 
and  affectation,  he  speedily  became  conspicuous.  No  man 
exercised  so  much  influence  on  the  age.  The  reason  is  ob- 
vious. On  no  man  did  the  age  exercise  so  much  influence. 
He  was  perhaps  the  greatest  of  those  whom  we  have  desig- 
nated as  the  critical  poets ; and  his  literary  career  exhibited 
on  a reduced  scale,  the  whole  history  of  the  school  to  which 
he  belonged, — the  rudeness  and  extravagance  of  its  infancy, 
— the  propriety,  the  grace,  the  dignified  good  sense,  the 
temperate  splendor  of  its  maturity.  His  imagination  was 
torpid,  till  it  was  awakened  by  his  judgment.  He  began 
with  quaint  parallels  and  empty  mouthing.  He  gradually 
acquired  the  energy  of  the  satirist,  the  gravity  of  the  moral- 
ist, the  rapture  of  the  lyric  poet.  The  revolution  through 
which  English  literature  lias  been  passing,  from  the  time  of 
Cowley  to  that  of  Scott,  may  be  seen  in  miniature  within 
the  compass  of  his  volumes. 


JOHN  DKYDEN. 


253 


His  life  divides  itself  into  two  parts.  There  is  some  de- 
batable ground  on  the  common  frontier ; but  the  line  may 
be  drawn  with  tolerable  accuracy.  The  year  1678  is  that  on 
which  we  should  be  inclined  to  fix  as  the  date  of  a great 
change  in  his  manner.  During  the  preceding  period  ap- 
peared some  of  his  courtly  panegyrics, — his  Annus  Mirabilis 
and  most  of  his  plays ; indeed  all  his  rhyming  tragedies. 
To  the  subsequent  period  belong  his  best  dramas, — All  for 
Love,  The  Spanish  Friar,  and  Sebastian, — liis  satires,  his 
translations,  his  didactic  poems,  his  fables,  and  his  odes. 

Of  the  small  pieces  which  were  presented  to  chancellors 
and  princes  it  wquld  scarcely  be  fair  to  speak.  The  great- 
est advantage  which  the  Fine  Arts  derive  from  the  exten- 
sion of  knowledge,  is,  that  the  patronage  of  individuals  be- 
comes unnecessary.  Some  writers  still  affect  to  regret  the 
age  of  patronage.  None  but  bad  writers  have  reason  to  re- 
gret it.  It  is  always  an  age  of  general  ignorance.  Where 
ten  thousand  readers  are  eager  for  the  appearance  of  ' a book, 
a small  contribution  from  each  makes  up  asplendid  remunera- 
tion for  the  author.  Where  literature  is  a luxury,  confined 
to  few,  each  of  them  must  pay  high.  If  the  Empress  Cath- 
erine, for  example,  wanted  an  epic  poem,  she  must  have 
wholly  supported  the  poet; — ^just  as,  in  a remote  country 
village,  a man  who  wants  a muttonchop  is  sometimes  forced 
to  take  the  whole  sheep ; — a thing  which  never  happens 
where  the  demand  is  large.  But  men  who  pay  largely  for 
the  gratification  of  their  taste  will  expect  to  have  it  united 
with  some  gratification  to  their  vanity.  Flattery  is  carried 
to  a shameless  extent ; and  the  habit  of  flattery  almost  in- 
evitably introduces  a false  taste  into  composition.  Its  lan- 
guage is  made  up  of  hyperbolical  common-places, — offensive 
from  their  triteness,—  still  more  offensive  from  their  extrav- 
agance. In  no  school  is  the  trick  of  overstepping  the  mod- 
esty of  nature  so  speedily  acquired.  The  writer,  accustomed 
to  find  exaggeration  acceptable  and  necessary  on  one  sub- 
ject, uses  it  on  all.  It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  the 
early  panegyrical  verses  of  Dryden  should  be  made  up  of 
meanness  and  bombast.  They  abound  with  the  conceits 
which  his  immediate  predecessors  had  brought  into  fashion. 
But  his  language  and  his  versification  were  already  far  su- 
perior to  theirs. 

The  Annus  Mirabilis  shows  great  command  of  expres- 
sion, and  a fine  ear  for  heroic  rhyme.  Here  its  merits  end. 
Not  only  has  it  no  claim  to  be  called  poetry,  but  it  seems  to  be 


! 


254  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tlic  work  of  a man  wlio  could  never,  by  any  possibility,  write 
poetry.  Its  affected  similes  are  the  best  part  of  it.  Gaudy 
weeds  present  a more  encouraging  spectacle  than  utter  bar- 
renness. There  is  scarcely  a single  stanza  in  this  long  work 
to  whicli  tlie  imagination  seems  to  have  contributed  any- 
thing. It  is  produced,  not  by  creation,  but  by  construction. 
It  is  made  up,  not  of  pictures,  but  of  inferences.  We  will 
give  a single  instance,  and  certainly  a favorable  instance, — 
a quatrain  which  Johnson  has  praised.  Dryden  is  describ- 
ing the  sea-fight  with  the  Dutch. — 

“ Amidst  whole  heaps  of  spices  lights  a ball ; 

And  now  their  odors  armed  against  them  fly. 

Some  preciously  by  shattered  porcelain  fall, 

And  some  by  aromatic  splinters  die.” 

The  poet  should  place  his  readers,  as  nearly  as  possible,  in 
the  situation  of  the  sufferers  or  the  spectators.  Ilis  narra- 
tion ought  to  produce  feelings  similar  to  those  which  would 
be  excited  by  the  event  itself.  Is  this  the  case  here  ? Who, 
in  a sea-fight,  ever  thought  of  the  price  of  the  china  which 
beats  out  the  brains  of  a sailor ; or  of  the  odor  of  the  splin- 
ter which  shatters  his  leg  ? It  is  not  by  an  act  of  the  imagi- 
nation, at  once  calling  up  the  scene  before  the  interior  eye, 
but  by  painful  meditation, — by  turning  the  subject  round 
and  round, — ^by  tracing  out  facts  into  remote  consequences, 
— that  these  incongruous  topics  are  introduced  into  the 
description.  Homer,  it  is  true,  perpetually  uses  epithets 
which  are  not  peculiarly  appropriate.  Achilles  is  the  swift- 
footed, when  he  is  sitting  still.  Ulysses  is  the  much-endur- 
ing, when  he  has  nothing  to  endure.  Every  spear  casts  a 
long  shadow,  every  ox  has  crooked  horns,  and  every  woman 
a high  bosom,  though  these  particulars  may  be  quite  beside 
the  purpose.  In  our  old  ballads  a similar  practice  prevails. 
The  gold  is  always  red,  and  the  ladies  always  gay,  though 
nothing  whatever  may  depend  on  the  hue  of  the  gold,  or  the 
temper  of  the  ladies.  But  these  adjectives  are  mere  cus- 
tomary additions.  They  merge  in  the  substantives  to  which 
they  are  attached.  If  they  at  all  color  the  idea,  it  is  with  a 
tinge  so  slight  as  in  no  respect  to  alter  the  general  effect. 
In  the  passage  which  we  have  quoted  from  Dryden  the  case 
is  very  different.  Preciously  and  aromatic  divert  our  whole 
attention  to  themselves,  and  dissolve  the  image  of  the  battle 
in  a moment.  The  whole  poem  reminds  us  of  Lucan,  and 
of  the  worst  parts  of  Lucan, — the  sea-fight  in  the  Buy  of 
Marseilles,  for  example.  The  description  of  the  two  neets 


JOHN  DRYDEK. 


255 


during  the  night  is  perhaps  the  only  passage  which  ought 
to  be  exeni])ted  from  this  censure.  If  it  was  from  the  Annus 
Mirabilis  that  Milton  formed  his  opinion,  when  he  pro- 
nounced Dryden  a good  rhymer  but  no  poet,  he  certainly 
judged  correctly.  But  Dryden  was,  as  we  have  said,  one  of 
those  writers  in  whom  the  period  of  imagination  does  not 
precede,  but  follow,  the  period  of  observation  and  reflection. 

Ills  plays,  his  rhyming  plays  in  particular,  are  admirable 
subjects  for  those  who  wish  to  study  the  morbid  anatomy 
of  the  drama.  He  was  utterly  destitute  of  the  power  of 
exhibiting  real  human  beings.  Even  in  the  far  inferior 
talent  of  composing  characters  out  of  those  elements  into 
which  the  imperfect  process  of  our  reason  can  resolve  them, 
he  was  very  deficient.  His  men  are  not  even  good  personi- 
fications ; they  are  not  well-assorted  assemblages  of  quali- 
ties. Now  and  then,  indeed,  he  seizes  a very  coarse  and 
marked  distinction,  and  gives  us,  not  a likeness,  but  a strong 
caricature,  in  which  a single  peculiarity  is  protruded,  and 
everything  else  neglected  ; like  the  Marquis  of  Granby  at  an 
inn-door,  whom  we  know  by  nothing  but  his  baldness;  or 
Wilkes,  who  is  Y'ilkes  only  in  his  squint.  These  are  the 
best  specimens  of  his  skill.  For  most  of  his  pictures  seem, 
like  Turkey  carpets,  to  have  been  expressly  designed  not  to 
resemble  anything  in  the  heavens  above,  in  the  earth  be- 
neath, or  in  the  waters  under  the  ®arth. 

The  latter  manner  he  practises  most  frequently  in  his 
tragedies,  the  former  in  his  comedies.  The  comic  charac- 
ters are,  without  mixture,  loathsome  and  despicable.  The 
men  of  Etherege  and  Vanbrugh  are  bad  enough.  Those  of 
Smollett  are  perhaps  worse.  But  they  do  not  approach  to 
the  Seladons,  the  Wildbloods,  the  Woodalls,  and  the  Rho- 
dophils  of  Dryden.  The  vices  of  these  last  are  set  off  by  a 
certain  fierce  hard  impudence,  to  which  we  know  nothing 
comparable.  Their  love  is  the  appetite  of  beasts  ; their 
friendship  the  confederacy  of  knaves.  The  ladies  seem  to 
have  been  expressly  created  to  form  helps  meet  for  such 
gentlemen.  In  deceving  and  insulting  their  old  fathers 
they  do  not  perhaps  exceed  the  license  which,  by  immemorial 
prescription,  has  been  allowed  to  heroines.  But  they  also 
cheat  at  cards,  rob  strong  boxes,  put  up  their  favors  to 
auction,  betray  their  friends,  abuse  tlieir  rivals  in  the 
style  of  Billingsgate,  and  invite  their  lovers  in  the  language 
of  the  Piazza.  These,  it  must  bo  remembered,  are  not  the 
valets  and  waiting-v/omen,  the  Mascarilles  and  Nerines,  but 


256 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WKITINGS. 


the  recognized  lieroes  and  lieroines,  wlio  appear  as  the  rep 
resentatives  of  good  society,  and  who,  at  the  end  of  the 
fifth  act,  marry  and  live  very  haj)}>ily  ever  after.  The  sen- 
suality, baseness,  and  malice  < ^ their  natures  is  unredeemed 
by  any  quality  of  a different  description, — by  any  touch  of 
kindness^ — or  even  by  any  honest  burst  of  hearty  hatred  and 
revenge.  We  are  in  a w rid  here  there  is  no  humanity, 
no  veracity,  no  sense  of  shame, — a world  for  which  any 
good-natured  man  would  gladly  take  in  exchange  the  so- 
ciety of  Milton’s  devils.  But,  as  soon  as  we  enter  the  re- 
gions of  Tragedy,  we  find  a great  change.  There  is  no  lack 
of  fine  sentiment  there.  Metastasio  is  surpassed  in  his  own 
department.  Scuderi  is  out-scuderied.  We  are  introduced 
to  people  whose  proceedings  we  can  trace  to  no  motive, — \ 

of  whose  feelings  we  can  form  no  more  idea  than  of  a sixth  : 

sense.  We  have  left  a race  of  creatures,  whose  love  is  as  | 

delicate  and  affectionate  as  the  passion  which  an  alderman 
feels  for  a turtle.  We  find  ourselves  among  beings,  whose  ^ 
love  is  a purely  disinterested  emotion, — a loyalty  extending  | 
to  passive  obedience, — a religion,  like  that  of  the  Quietists,  ^ 
unsupported  by  any  sanction  of  hope  or  fear.  We  see  \ 
nothing  but  despotism  without  power,  and  sacrifices  with-  j 
out  comj^ensation.  J 

We  will  give  a few  instances.  In  Aurengzebe,  Arimant,  J 

governor  of  Agra,  falls  in  love  with  his  prisoner  Indamora.  j 

She  rejects  his  suit  with  scorn ; but  assures  him  that  she  \ 

shall  make  great  use  of  her  power  over  him.  He  threatens  | 

to  be  angry.  She  answers,  very  coolly : | 

“ Do  not : your  anger,  like  your  love,  is  vain  : 1 

Whene’er  I please,  you  must  be  pleased  again.  1 

Knowing  what  power  I have  your  will  to  bend,  | 

I’ll  use  it ; for  1 need  just  such  a friend.”  | 

This  is  no  idle  menace.  She  soon* brings  a letter  addressed  J 

to  his  rival, — orders  him  to  read  it, — asks  him  whether  he  j 

thinks  it  sufficiently  tender, — and  finally  commands  him  to  | 

carry  it  himself.  Such  tyranny  as  this,  it  may  be  thought,  | 

would  justify  resistance.  Arimant  does  indeed  venture  to  ^ 

remonstrate ; ^ 


This  fatal  paper  rather  let  me  tear, 

Than,  like  BeUerophon,  my  sentence  bear.” 


1 


The  answer  of  the  lady  is  incomparable : — 


“You  may  ; but  ’twill  not  be  your  best  advice  ; 
’Twill  only  give  me  pains  of  writing  twice. 

You  know  you  must  obey  me,  soon  or  late. 

Why  should  you  vainly  struggle  with  your  fate  ? ” 


i 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


257 


Poor  Arimant  seems  to  be  of  the  same  opinion.  He 
mutters  sometliing  about  fate  and  free-will,  and  walks  oft 
with  the  billet-doux. 

J[n  the  Indian  Emperor,  Montezuma  presents  Almeria 
with  a garland  as  a token  of  his  love,  and  offers  to  make 
her  his  queen.  She  replies  : 

“ I take  this  garland,  not  as  given  by  you  ; 

But  as  my  merit’s  and  my  beauty’s  due  ; 

As  for  the  crown  which  you,  my  slave,  possess, 

To  share  it  with  you  would  but  make  me  less.** 

In  return  for  such  proofs  of  tenderness  as  these,  her 
admirer  consents  to  murder  his  two  sons  and  a benefactor 
to  whom  he  feels  the  warmest  gratitude.  Lyndaraxa,  in 
the  Conquest  of  Granada,  assumes  the  same  lofty  tone  with 
Abdelmelech.  He  complains  that  she  smiles  upon  his  rival. 

“ Lynd.  And  when  did  I my  power  so  far  resign, 

Tliat  you  should  regulate  each  look  of  mine? 

Abdel.  Tlien,  when  you  gave  your  love,  you  gave  that  power. 

Lynd.  *Twas  during  pleasure — 'tis  revoked  this  hour. 

Abdel:  I’ll  hate  you,  and  this  visit  is  my  last. 

Lynd.  Do,  if  you  can  : you  know  I hold  you  fast.** 

That  these  passages  violate  all  historical  propriety,  that 
sentiments  to  which  nothing  similar  was  ever  even  affected 
except  by  the  cavaliers  of  Europe,  are  transferred  to  Mexico 
and  Agra,  is  a light  accusation.  We  have  no  objection  to  a 
conventional  world,  an  Illyrian  puritan,  or  a Bohemian  sea- 
port. While  the  faces  are  good,  we  care  little  about  the 
back-ground.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  says  that  the  curtains 
and  hangings  in  a historical  painting  ought  to  be,  not  velvet 
or  cotton,  but  merely  drapery.  The  same  principle  should 
be  applied  to  poetry  and  romance.  The  truth  of  character 
is  the  first  object ; the  truth  of  place  and  time  is  to  be  con- 
sidered only  in  the  second  jdace.  Puff  himself  could  tell 
the  actor  to  turn  out  his  toes,  and  remind  him  that  Keeper 
Hatton  was  a great  dancer.  We  wish  that,  in  our  time,  a 
writer  of  a very  different  order  from  Puff  had  not  too  often 
forgotten  human  nature  in  the  niceties  of  upholstery,  milli- 
nery, and  cookery. 

We  blame  Dry  den,  not  because  the  persons  of  his  dramas 
are  not  Moors  or  Americans,  but  because  they  are  not  men 
and  women ; — not  because  love,  such  as  he  represents  it, 
could  not  exist  in  a harem  or  in  a wigwam,  but  because  it 
could  not  exist  anywhere.  As  is  the  love  of  his  heroes, 
such  are  all  their  other  emotions,  All  their  qualities,  their 
VoL.  1,-17 


258 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wuitingr. 


courage,  their  generosity,  their  pride,  are  on  the  same  co 
lossal  scale.  Justice  and  j)rudence  are  virtues  whicli  can 
exist  only  in  a moderate  degree,  and  which  cliange  their 
nature  and  their  name  if  pushed  to  excess.  Of  justice  ?lnd 
prudence,  therefore,  Dryden  leaves  his  favorites  destitute, 
lie  did  not  care  to  give  them  what  he  could  not  give  with- 
,^ut  measure.  The  tyrants  and  ruffians  are  merely  the  he- 
roes altered  by  a few  touches,  similar  to  those  which  trans- 
formed the  honest  face  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  into  the 
Saracen’s  head.  Through  the  grin  and  frown  the  original 
features  are  still  perceptible. 

It  is  in  the  tragi-comedies  that  these  absurdities  strike 
us  most.  The  two  races  of  men,  or  ratlier  the  angels  and 
the  baboons,  are  there  presented  to  us  together.  We  meet 
in  one  scene  with  nothing  but  gross,  selfish,  unblushing, 
lying  libertines  of  both  sexes,  who,  as  a punishment,  we 
suppose,  for  their  depravity,  are  condemned  to  talk  nothing 
but  prose.  But,  as  soon  as  we  meet  with  people  who  speak 
in  verse,  we  know  that  we  are  in  society  which  would  have 
enraptured  the  Cathos  and  Madelon  of  Molidre,  in  society 
for  which  Oroondates  Avould  have  too  little  of  the  lover,  and 
Clelia  too  much  of  the  coquette. 

As  Dry  den  was  unable  to  render  his  plays  interesting 
by  means  of  that  which  is  the  joeculiar  and  appropriate  ex- 
cellence of  the  drama,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  find 
some  substitute  for  it.  In  his  comedies  he  supplied  its 
place,  sometimes  by  wit,  but  more  frequently  by  intrigue,  by 
disguises,  mistakes  of  persons,  dialogues  at  cross  purposes, 
hair-breadth  escapes,  perplexing  concealments,  and  surprising 
disclosures.  He  thus  succeeded  at  least  in  making  these 
pieces  very  amusing. 

In  his  tragedies  he  trusted,  and  not  altogether  without 
reason,  to  his  diction  and  his  versification.  It  was  on  this 
account,  in  all  probability,  that  he  so  eagerly  adopted,  and 
so  reluctantly  abandoned,  the  practice  of  rhyming  in  his 
plays.  What  is  unnatural  appears  less  unnatural  in  that 
species  of  verse  than  in  lines  Avhich  approach  more  nearly  to 
common  conversation ; and  in  the  management  of  the  heroic 
couplet  Dryden  has  never  been  equalled.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  urge  any  arguments  against  a fashion  now  universally 
condemned.  But  it  is  worthy  of  observation,  that,  though 
Dryden  was  deficient  in  that  talent  which  blank  verse  ex- 
hibits to  the  greatest  advantage,  and  was  certainly  the  best 
vritei*  of  heroic,  rhyme  in  our  language,  yet  the  plays  which 


JOHN  HRYDEN. 


259 


have,  from  the  time  of  their  first  appearance,  been  considered 
as  his  best,  are  in  blank  verse.  No  experiment  can  be  more 
decisive. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  the  worst  even  of  the  rhyming 
tragedies  contains  good  descrijjtion  and  magnificent  rhet- 
oric. But,  even  when  we  forget  that  they  are  plays,  and, 
passing  by  their  dramatic  improprieties,  consider  them  with 
reference  to  the  language,  we  are  perpetually  disgusted  by 
passages  which  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  any  author 
could  have  written,  or  any  audience  have  tolerated,  rants 
in  which  the  raving  violence  of  the  manner  forms  a strange 
contrast  with  the  abject  tameness  of  the  thought.  The 
author  laid  the  whole  fault  on  the  audience,  and  declared 
that,  when  he  wrote  them,  he  considered  them  bad  enough 
to  please.  This  defence  is  unworthy  of  a man  of  genius, 
and,  after  all,  is  no  defence.  Otway  pleased  without  rant ; 
and  so  might  Dryden  have  done,  if  he  had  possessed  the 
powers  of  Otway.  The  fact  is,  that  he  had  a tendency  to 
bombast,  which,  though  subsequently  corrected  by  time  and 
thought,  was  never  wholly  removed,  and  which  showed  it- 
self in  performances  not  designed  to  j)lease  the  rude  mob  of 
the  theatre. 

Some  indulgent  critics  have  represented  this  failing  as 
an  indication  of  genius,  as  the  profusion  of  unlimited  wealth, 
the  wantonness  of  exuberant  vigor.  To  us  it  seems  to  bear 
a nearer  affinity  to  the  tawdriness  of  poverty,  or  the  spasms 
and  convulsions  of  weakness.  Dryden  surely  had  not  more 
imagination  than  Homer,  Dante,  or  Milton,  who  never  fall 
into  this  vice.  The  swelling  diction  of  ^schylus  and  Isaiah 
resembles  that  of  Almanzor  and  Maximin  no  more  than  the 
tumidity  of  a muscle  resembles  the  tumidity  of  aboil.  The 
former  is  symptomatic  of  health  and  strength,  the  latter  of 
debility  and  disease.  If  ever  Shakspeare  rants,  it  is  not 
when  his  imagination  is  hurrying  him  along,  but  when  he  ia 
hurrying  his  imagination  along, — when  his  mind  is  for  a mo- 
ment jaded, — when,  as  was  said  of  Euripides,  he  resembles  a 
lion,  who  excites  his  own  fury  by  lashing  himself  with  his 
tail.  What  happened  to  Shakspeare  from  the  occasional 
suspension  of  his  powers  happened  to  Dryden  from  constant 
impotence.  He,  like  his  confederate  Lee,  had  judgment 
enough  to  appreciate  the  great  poets  of  the  preceding  age, 
but  not  judgment  enough  to  shun  competition  with  them. 
He  felt  and  admired  their  wild  and  daring  sublimity.  That 
it  belonged  to  another  age  than  that  in  which  he  lived  and 


‘j60  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

required  other  talents  than  those  which  he  possessed,  that, 
in  aspiring  to  emulate  it,  he  was  waisting,  in  a hopeless  at- 
tempt, powers  which  might  render  him  pre-eminent  in  a 
different  career,  was  a lesson  which  he  did  not  learn  till  late. 
As  those  knavish  enthusiasts,  the  French  prophets,  courted 
inspiration  by  mimicking  the  Avrithings,  swoonings,  and 
gaspings  which  they  considered  as  its  symptoms,  he  at- 
tempted, by  affecting  fits  of  poetical  fury,  to  bring  on  a real 

raroxysm  ; and,  like  them,  he  got  nothing  but  his  distortions 
)r  his  pains. 

Horace  A^ery  happily  compares  those  who,  in  his  time, 
imitated  Pindar  to  the  youth  who  attempted  to  fly  to  heaven 
on  Avaxen  wings,  and  who  experienced  so  fatal  and  ignomin- 
ious a fall.  His  OAvn  admirable  good  sense  preserved  him 
from  this  error,  and  taught  him  to  cultivate  a style  in  Avhich 
excellence  was  within  his  reach.  Dryden  had  not  the  same 
self-knowledge.  He  saw  that  the  greatest  poets  were  never 
so  successful  as  Avhen  they  rushed  beyond  the  ordinary 
bounds,  and  that  some  inexplicable  good  fortune  preserved 
them  from  tripping  even  when  they  staggered  on  the  brink 
of  nonsense.  He  did  not  perceive  that  they  were  guided 
and  sustained  by  a poAver  denied  to  himself.  They  wrote 
from  the  dictation  of  the  imagination  ; and  they  found  a re- 
sponse in  the  imaginations  of  others.  He,  on  the  contrary, 
sat  doAvn  to  work  himself,  by  reflection  and  argument,  into 
a deliberate  Avildness,  a rational  frenzy. 

In  looking  over  the  admirable  designs  Avhich  accompany 
the  Faust,  we  ha\^e  ahvays  been  much  struck  by  one  which 
represents  the  wizard  and  the  tempter  riding  at  full  speed. 
The  demon  sits  on  his  furious  horse  as  heedlessly  as  if  he 
were  reposing  on  a chair.  That  he  should  keep  his  saddle 
in  such  a posture,  would  seem  impossible  to  any  wdio  did 
not  know  that  he  was  secure  in  the  privileges  of  a superhu- 
man nature.  The  attitude  of  Faust,  on  the  contrary,  is  the 
perfection  of  horsemanship.  Poets  of  the  first  order  might 
safely  write  as  desperately  as  Mephistophiles  rode.  But 
Dryden,  though  admitted  to  communion  Avith  higher  spirits, 
though  armed  Avith  a portion  of  their  poAver,  and  intrusted 
with  some  of  their  secrets,  was  of  another  race.  What  they 
might  securely  A^enture  to  do,  it  was  madness  in  him  to  at- 
tempt. It  was  necessary  that  taste  and  critical  science 
should  supply  his  deficiencies. 

We  will  gh"e  a fcAV  examples.  Nothing  can  be  finer 
than  the  description  of  Hector  at  the  Grecian  wall 


jnnN  DRTDEN. 


2G1 


o 5‘  ap*  €(T^op€  <f>aC8Lixo^  *'E«Ta>p, 

Nu<eTi  aTa\avTO<;  vnionta'  \dfine  8e 
SpepSaAe'w,  top  eecrro  Trepl  ^pot  fiota  5e 
Aovp’  ex®*'*  P*'*'  ^pvKaKOL  dpTi^o\rj(T%^f 

N6(r</)t  ^60)1/,  6t’  eo’dAro  TruAa?*  Trvpt  6’  oo’o'e  6e5i7«t.* 

*AuTi/ca  5’  6t  pL€P  T€ixo?  VTrepjSacrai',  6t  6e  /ear’  dvra? 
rioir/Ta^  eo’e'xvi'TO  rrv\a<;'  Aapaiol  S’  €<f>o^rf^ep 
N^as  di'd  y\a<f>vpdq‘  dpaSos  6’  dAi'ao’TO?  €Tv\^ri, 

What  daring  expressions!  Yet  how  significant ! How 
picturesque ! Hector  seems  to  rise  up  in  his  strength  and 
fury.  The  gloom  of  night  in  his  frown, — the  fire  burning 
in  his  eyes, — the  javelins  and  the  blazing  armor, — the  mighty 
rush  through  the  gates  and  down  the  battlements, — the 
trampling  and  the  infinite  roar  of  the  multitude, — every- 
thing is  with  us  ; everything  is  real. 

Dryden  has  described  a very  similar  event  in  Maximin, 
and  has  done  his  best  to  be  sublime,  as  follows  : — 

“ There  with  a forest  of  their  darts  he  strove, 

And  stood  like  Capaneus  defying  Jove  ; 

With  his  broad  sword  the  boldest  beating  down, 

Till  Fate  grew  pale,  lest  he  should  win  the  town, 

And  turned  the  iron  leaves  of  its  dark  book 
To  make  new  dooms,  or  mend  what  it  mistook.*' 

How  exquisite  is  the  imagery  of  the  fairy  songs  in  the 
Tempest  and  in  the  Midsummer  Night’s  Dream ; Ariel 
/iding  through  the  twilight  on  the  bat,  or  sucking  in  the 
bells  of  flowers  with  the  bee ; or  the  little  bower-women  of 
Titania,  driving  the  spiders  from  the  couch  of  the  Queen ! 
Dryden  truly  said,  that 

“ Shakspeare’s  magic  could  not  copied  be  : 

Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he.** 

It  would  have  been  well  if  he  had  not  himself  dared  to 
step  within  the  enchanted  line,  and  drawn  on  himself  a fate 
similar  to  that  which,  according  to  the  old  superstition,  pun- 
ished such  presumptuous  interference.  The  following  lines 
are  parts  of  the  song  of  his  fairies : — 

Merry,  merry,  merry,  we  sail  from  the  East, 

Half-tippled  at  a rainbow  feast. 

In  the  bright  moonshine,  while  winds  whistle  loud, 

Tivy,  tivy,  tivy,  we  mount  and  we  fly, 

All  racking  along  in  a downy  white  cloud  ; 

And  lest  our  leap  from  the  sky  prove  too  far, 

We  slide  on  the  back  of  a new  falling  star, 

And  drop  from  above 
In  a jelly  of  love.” 

These  are  very  favorable  instances.  Those  who  wish  for  a 
bad  one  may  read  the  dying  speeches  of  Maximin,  and  may 
compare  them  with  the  last  scenes  of  Othello  and  Lear. 


262  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitinos. 

If  Drydeii  had  died  before  tlic  expiration  of  the  first  of 
the  periods  into  wliich  we  liave  divided  his  literary  life,  he 
would  liave  left  a reputation,  at  best,  little  higher  than  that 
of  Lee  or  Davenant.  lie  would  have  been  known  only  to 
men  of  letters  ; and  by  them  he  would  have  been  mentioned 
as  a writer  who  tlirew  away,  on  subjects  wliich  he  was  incom- 
petent to  treat,  powers  Avhich,  judiciously  emjdoyed,  might 
have  raised  him  to  eminence ; whose  diction  and  Avliose 
numbers  had  sometimes  veiy  higli  merit;  but  all  Avhose 
works  were  blemislied  by  a false  taste,  and  by  errors  of 
gross  negligence.  A few  of  his  prologues  and  epilogues 
might  perhaj)s  still  have  been  remembered  and  quoted.  In 
these  little  pieces  he  early  showed  all  the  powers  which 
afterwards  rendered  him  the  greatest  of  modern  satirists. 
But,  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  he  gradually  abandoned 
the  drama.  Ills  plays  appeared  at  longer  intervals.  He 
renounced  rhyme  in  tragedy.  Ilis  language  became  less 
turgid — his  characters  less  exaggerated.  lie  did  not  indeed 
produce  correct  representations  of  human  nature ; but  he 
ceased  to  daub  such  monstrous  chimeras  as  those  which 
abound  in  his  earlier  pieces.  Here  and  there  passages  occur 
worthy  of  the  best  ages  of  the  British  stage.  The  style 
which  the  drama  requires  changes  with  every  -change  of 
character  and  situation.  He  who  can  vary  his  manner  to 
suit  the  variation  is  the  great  dramatist ; but  he  who  excels 
in  one  manner  only  will,  when  that  manner  happens  to  be 
appropriate,  appear  to  be  a great  dramatist  ; as  the  hands 
of  a watch  which  does  not  go  point  right  once  in  the  twelve 
hours.  Sometimes  there  is  a scene  of  solemn  debate.  This 
a mere  rhetorician  may  write  as  well  as  the  greatest  trage- 
dian that  ever  lived.  We  confess  that  to  us  the  speech  of 
Sempronius  in  Cato  seems  very  nearly  as  good  as  Shakspeare 
could  have  made  it.  But  when  the  senate  breaks  up,  and 
we  find  that  the  lovers  and  their  mistresses,  the  hero,  the 
vidain,  and  the  deputy-villain,  all  continue  to  harangue  in 
the  same  style,  we  perceive  the  difference  between  a man 
who  can  write  a play  and  a man  who  can  write  a speech. 
In  the  same  manner,  wit,  a talent  for  description,  or  a tal- 
ent for  narration,  may,  for  a time,  pass  for  dramatic  genius. 
Dryden  was  an  incomparable  reasoner  in  verse.  He  was  con- 
scious of  his  power ; he  was  jn’oud  of  it ; and  the  authors  of 
tlie  Rehearsal  justly  charged  him  with  abusing  it.  His  war- 
riors and  princesses  are  fond  of  discussing  points  of  amorous 
uasuistry,  such  as  would  have  delighted  a Parliament  of 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


263 


Love.  They  frequently  go  still  deeper,  and  speculate  on 
philosophical  necessity  and  the  origin  of  evil. 

Tliere  were,  liowever,  some  occasions  which  absolutely 
required  this  peculiar  talent.  Then  Dryden  was  indeed  at 
home.  All  his  best  scenes  are  of  this  description.  They 
are  all  between  men ; for  the  heroes  of  Dryden,  like  many 
other  gentlemen,  can  never  talk  sense  when  ladies  are  in 
company.  They  are  all  intended  to  exhibit  the  empire  of 
reason  over  violent  passion.  We  have  two  interlocutors,  the 
one  eager  and  impassioned,  the  other  high,  cool,  and  judi- 
cious. The  composed  and  rational  character  gradually  ac- 
quires the  ascendancy.  His  fierce  companion  is  first  in- 
flamed to  rage  by  his  reproaches,  then  overawed  by  his  equa^ 
nimity,  convinced  by  his  arguments,  and  soothed  by  his  per- 
suasions. This  is  the  case  in  the  scene  between  Hector  and 
Troilus,  in  that  between  Antony  and  Ventidius,  and  in  that 
between  Sebastian  andDorax.  Hothing  of  the  same  kind 
in  ShaksjDeare  is  equal  to  them,  except  the  quarrel  between 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  which  is  worth  them  all  three. 

Some  years  before  his  death,  Dryden  altogether  ceased 
to  write  for  the  stage.  He  had  turned  his  powers  in  a new 
direction,  with  success  the  most  splendid  and  decisive. 
Ilis  taste  had  gradually  awakened  his  creative  faculties. 
The  first  rank  in  poetry  was  beyond  his  reach ; but  he  chal- 
lenged and  secured  the  most  honorable  place  in  the  second. 
His  imagination  resembled  the  wings  of  an  ostrich.  It  ena- 
bled him  to  run,  though  not  to  soar.  When  he  attempted  the 
highest  fiiglits,  he  became  ridiculous  ; but,  while  he  remained 
in  a lower  region,  he  outstripped  all  competitors. 

All  his  natural  and  all  his  acquired  powers  fitted  him  to 
found  a good  critical  school  of  poetry.  Indeed  he  carried 
his  reforms  too  far  for  his  age.  After  his  death,  our  litera- 
ture retrograded : and  a century  was  necessary  to  bring  it 
back  to  the  point  at  which  he  left  it.  The  general  sound- 
ness and  healthfulness  of  his  mental  constitution,  his  infor- 
mation of  vast  superficies  though  of  small  volume,  his  wit 
scarcely  inferior  to  that  of  the  most  distinguished  followers 
of  Donne,  his  eloquence,  grave,  deliberate,  and  commanding, 
could  not  save  him  from  disgraceful  failure  as  a rival  of 
Shakspeare,  but  raised  him  far  above  the  level  of  Boileau. 
His  command  of  language  was  immense.  With  him  died 
the  secret  of  the  old  poetical  diction  of  England, — the  art 
of  producing  rich  effects  by  familiar  words.  In  the  follow- 
ing century,  it  was  as  completely  lost  as  the  Gothic  method 


2G4  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

of  painting  glass,  and  was  but  poorly  supjdied  by  the  labo- 
rious and  tesselated  imitations  of  Mason  and  Gray.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  was  the  first  writer  under  whose  skilful  man- 
agement the  scientific  vocabulary  fell  into  natural  and 
pleasing  verse.  In  this  department,  he  succeeded  as  com- 
pletely as  his  contemporary  Gibbons  succeeded  in  the 
similar  enterprise  of  carving  the  most  delicate  flowers  from 
heart  of  oak.  The  toughest  and  most  knotty  parts  of  lan- 
guage became  ductile  at  his  touch.  Ilis  versification  in  the 
same  manner,  while  it  gave  the  first  model  of  that  neatness 
and  precision  which  the  following  generation  esteemed  so 
highly,  exhibited,  at  the  same  time,  the  last  examples  of 
nobleness,  freedom,  variety  of  pause,  and  cadence.  His 
tragedies  in  rhyme,  however  worthless  in  themselves,  had 
at  least  served  the  purpose  of  nonsense-verses ; they  had 
taught  him  all  the  arts  of  melody  which  the  heroic  couplet 
admits.  For  bombast,  his  prevailing  vice,  his  new  sub- 
jects gave  little  opportunity  ; his  better  taste  gradually  dis- 
carded it. 

He  possessed,  as  we  have  said,  in  a pre-eminent  degree, 
the  power  of  reasoning  in  verse ; and  this  power  was  now 
peculiarly  useful  to  him.  His  logic  is  by  no  means  uniformly 
sound.  On  points  of  criticism,  he  always  reasons  ingeni- 
ously ; and,  when  he  is  disposed  to  be  honest,  coiTectly. 
But  the  theological  and  political  questions  which  he  under- 
took to  treat  in  verse  were  precisely  those  which  he  under- 
stood least.  His  arguments,  therefore,  are  often  worthless. 
But  the  manner  in  which  they  are  stated  is  beyond  all  praise. 
The  style  is  transparent.  The  topics  follow  each  other 
in  the  happiest  order.  The  objections  are  drawn  up  in  such 
a manner  that  the  whole  fire  of  the  reply  may  be  brought  to 
bear  on  them.  Tlie  circumlocutions  which  are  substituted 
for  technical  phrases  are  clear,  neat,  and  exact.  The  illus- 
trations at  once  adorn  and  elucidate  the  reasoning.  The 
sparkling  epigrams  of  Cowley,  and  the  simple  garrulity  of 
the  burlesque  poets  of  Italy,  are  alternately  employed,  in 
the  happiest  manner,  to  give  effect  to  what  is  obvious,  or 
clearness  to  what  is  obscure. 

His  literary  creed  was  catholic,  even  to  latitudinarianism ; 
not  from  any  want  of  acuteness,  but  from  a disposition  to  be 
easily  satisfied.  He  was  quick  to  discern  the  smallest  glimpse 
of  merit ; he  was  indulgent  even  to  gross  improprieties, 
when  accompanied  by  any  redeeming  talent.  When  he 
sai  l a severe  thing,  it  was  to  serve  a temporary  purpose,-— 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


265 


to  support  an  argument  or  to  tease  a rival.  Never  was  so 
able  a critic  so  free  from  fastidiousness.  He  loved  the  old 
poets,  especially  Shakspeare.  He  admired  the  ingenuity 
which  Donne  and  Cowley  had  so  wildly  abused.  He  did 

i'ustice,  amidst  the  general  silence,  to  the  memory  of  Milton, 
le  praised  to  the  skies  the  school-boy  lines  of  Addison. 
Always  looking  on  the  fair  side  of  every  object,  he  admired 
extravagance  on  account  of  the  invention  which  he  supposed 
it  to  indicate  ; he  excused  affectation  in  favor  of  wit  ; he 
tolerated  even  tameness  for  the  sake  of  the  correctness 
which  was  its  concomitant. 

It  was  probably  to  this  turn  of  mind,  rather  than  to  the 
more  disgraceful  causes  which  Johnson  has  assigned,  that  we 
are  to  attribute  the  exaggeration  Avhich  disfigures  the  pane- 
gyrics of  Dryden.  No  writer,  it  must  be  owned,  has  car- 
ried the  flattery  of  dedication  to  a greater  length.  But  this 
was  not,  we  suspect,  merely  interested  servility : it  was  the 
overflowing  of  a mind  singularly  disposed  to  admiration, — 
of  a mind  which  diminished  vices,  and  magnified  virtues 
and  obligations.  The  most  adulatory  of  his  addresses  is 
that  in  which  he  dedicates  the  State  of  Innocence  to  Mary 
of  Modena.  Johnson  thinks  it  strange  that  any  man  should 
use  such  language  without  self-detestation.  But  he  has  not 
remarked  that  to  the  very  same  work  is  prefixed  an  eulogium 
on  Milton,  which  certainly  could  not  have  been  acceptable 
at  the  court  of  Charles  the  Second.  Many  years  later,  when 
Whig  principles  were  in  a great  measure  triumphant.  Sprat 
refused  to  admit  a monument  of  John  Philips  into  West- 
minster Abbey — because,  in  the  epitaph,  the  name  of  Milton 
incidentally  occurred.  The  walls  of  his  church,  he  declared, 
should  not  be  polluted  by  the  name  of  a republican ! Dryden 
was  attached,  both  by  principle  and  interest,  to  the  Court. 
But  nothing  could  deaden  his  sensibility  to  excellence.  We 
are  unwilling  to  accuse  him  severely,  because  the  same  dis- 
position, which  prompted  him  to  pay  so  generous  a tribute 
to  the  memory  of  a poet  whom  his  patron  detested,  hurried 
him  into  extravagance  when  he  described  a princess  distin- 
guished by  the  splendor  of  her  beauty  and  the  graciousness 
of  her  manners. 

This  is  an  amiable  temper ; but  it  is  not  the  temper  of 
great  men.  Where  there  is  elevation  of  character  there 
will  be  fastidiousness.  It  is  only  in  novels  and  on  tomb- 
stones that  we  meet  with  people  who  are  indulgent  to  the 
faults  of  others,  and  unmerciful  to  their  own  ; and  Dryden,  at 


26G 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 


all  events,  was  not  one  of  these  j)ara<2jons.  Ilis  charity  was 
extended  most  liberally  to  others  ; but  it  certainly  began  at 
home.  In  taste  he  was  by  no  means  deficient.  His  critical 
works  are,  beyond  all  comparison,  superior  to  any  which  had, 
till  then,  ap])eared  in  England.  They  were  generally  in- 
tended as  apologies  for  his  own  ]>oenis,  rather  than  as  exposi- 
tions of  general  principles  ; he,  therefore,  often  attempts  to 
deceive  the  reader  by  sopliistry  which  could  scarcely  have 
deceived  himself.  His  dicta  are  the  dicta,  not  of  a judge, 
but  of  an  advocate  ; — often  of  an  advocate  in  an  unsound 
cause.  Yet,  in  the  very  act  of  misrepresenting  the  laws 
of  composition,  he  shows  how  well  he  understands  them. 
But  he  was  perpetually  acting  against  his  better  knowledge. 
His  sins  were  sins  against  light.  He  trusted  that  what  was 
bad  would  be  pardoned  for  the  sake  of  Avhat  was  good. 
What  was  good  he  took  pains  to  make  better.  He  was  not, 
like  most  persons  who  rise  to’  eminence,  dissatisfied  even 
with  his  best  jDroductions.  He  had  set  uj)  no  unattainable 
standard  of  perfection,  the  contemplation  of  which  might 
at  once  improve  and  mortify  him.  His  path  was  not  at- 
tended by  an  unapproachable  mirage  of  excellence,  for  ever 
receding,  and  for  ever  pursued.  He  was  not  disgusted  by 
the  negligence  of  others  ; and  he  extended  the  same  toleration 
to  himself.  His  mind  was  of  a slovenly  character, — fond  of 
splendor,  but  indifferent  to  neatness.  Hence  most  of  his 
writings  exhibit  the  sluttish  magnificence  of  a Russian  noble, 
all  A^ermin  and  diamonds,  dirty  linen  and  inestimable  sables. 
Those  faults  which  spring  from  affectation,  time  and  thought 
in  a great  measure  removed  from  his  poems.  But  his  care- 
lessness he  retained  to  the  last.  If  towards  the  close  of  his 
life  he  less  frequently  Avent  Avrong  from  negligence,  it  was 
only  because  long  habits  of  composition  rendered  it  more 
easy  to  go  right.  In  his  best  pieces  we  find  false  rhymes, — 
triplets,  in  which  the  third  line  appears  to  be  a mere  intruder, 
and,  while  it  breaks  the  music,  adds  nothing  to  the  meaning, 
— gigantic  Alexandrines  of  fourteen  and  sixteen  syllables, 
and  truncated  verses  for  which  he  never  troubled  himself  to 
find  a termination  or  a partner. 

Such  are  the  beauties  and  the  faults  which  may  be  found 
in  profusion  throughout  the  later  works  of  Dryden.  A more 
just  and  complete  estimate  of  his  natural  and  acquired 
poAvers, — of  the  merits  of  his  style  and  of  its  blemishes, — 
may  be  formed  from  the  Hind  and  Panther,  than  from  any 
of  his  other  writings.  As  a didactic  poem,  it  is  far  superiof 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


267 


to  the  Religlo  Laici.  The  satirical  parts,  particularly  the 
character  of  Burnet,  are  scarcely  inferior  to  the  best  pas- 
sages in  Absalom  and  Achitophel.  There  are,  moreover,  oc- 
casional touches  of  a tenderness  which  affects  us  more, 
because  it  is  decent,  rational,  and  manly,  and  reminds  us  of 
the  best  scenes  in  his  tragedies.  His  versification  sinks  and 
swells  in  happy  unison  with  the  subject ; and  his  wealth  of 
language  seems  to  be  unlimited.  Yet,  the  carelessness  with 
wliich  he  has  constructed  his  plot,  and  the  innumerable  incon- 
sistencies into  which  he  is  every  moment  falling,  detract 
much  from  the  pleasure  which  such  various  excellence  affords. 

In  Absalom  and  Achitophel  he  hit  upon  a new  and  rich 
vein  which  he  worked  with  signal  success.  The  ancient  satir- 
ists were  the  subjects  of  a despotic  government.  They  were 
compelled  to  abstain  from  political  topics,  and  to  confine 
their  attention  to  the  frailties  of  private  life.  They  might, 
indeed,  sometimes  venture  to  take  liberties  with  public  men, 

“ Quorum  Flaminia  tegitur  cinis  atque  Latina.’* 

Thus  Juvenal  immortalized  the  obsequious  senators  who  met 
to  decide  the  fate  of  the  memorable  turbot.  His  fourth  satire 
frequently  reminds  us  of  the  great  political  poem  of  Dryden  ; 
but  it  was  not  written  till  Domitian  had  fallen  : and  it  wants 
something  of  the  peculiar  flavor  which  belongs  to  contem- 
porary invective  alone.  His  anger  has  stood  so  long  that, 
though  the  body  is  not  impaired,  the  effervescence,  the  first 
cream,  is  gone.  Boileau  lay  under  similar  restraints ; and, 
if  he  had  been  free  from  all  restraint,  would  have  been  no 
match  for  our  countryman. 

The  advantages  which  Dryden  derived  from  the  nature 
of  his  subject  he  improved  to  the  very  utmost.  His  manner 
is  almost  perfect.  The  style  of  Horace  and  Boileau  is  fit 
only  for  light  subjects.  The  Frenchman  did  indeed  attempt 
to  turn  the  theological  reasonings  of  the  Provincial  Letters 
into  verse,  but  with  very  indifferent  success.  The  glitter  of 
Pope  is  cold.  The  ardor  of  Persius  is  Avithout  brilliancy. 
Magnificent  versification  and  ingenious  combinations  rarely 
harmonize  with  the  expression  of  deep  feeling.  In  Juvenal 
and  Dryden  alone  we  have  the  sparkle  and  the  heat  to- 
gether. Those  great  satirists  succeeded  in  communicating 
the  fervor  of  their  feelings  to  materials  the  most  incombus- 
tible, and  kindled  the  whole  mass  into  a blaze,  at  once  daz- 
zling and  destructive.  We  cannot,  indeed,  think,  without 
regret,  of  the  part  which  so  eminent  a writer  as  Dryden 


268 


Macaulay's  miscellaneous  whitings. 


took  in  tlie  disputes  of  that  period.  There  was,  no  doubt, 
niadiiess  and  wickedness  on  botli  sides.  But  there  was 
liberty  on  tlie  one,  and  despotism  on  the  other.  On  tliis 
point,  liowever,  we  will  not  dwell.  At  Talavera  the  English 
and  French  troops  for  a moment  suspended  their  conflict,  to 
drink  of  a stream  which  flowed  between  them.  The  shells 
were  passed  across  from  enemy  to  enemy  without  appre- 
hension or  molestation.  We,  in  the  same  manner,  would 
rather  assist  our  political  adversaries  to  drink  with  us  of 
that  fountain  of  intellectual  pleasure,  which  should  be  the 
common  refreshment  of  both  parties,  than  disturb  and  pol 
lute  it  with  the  havock  of  unseasonable  hostilities. 

Macflecnoe  is  inferior  to  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  only 
in  the  subject.  In  the  execution  it  is  even  superior.  But 
the  greatest  work  of  Dryden  was  the  last,  the  Ode  on  Saint 
Cecilia’s  day.  It  is  the  master-piece  of  the  second  class  of 
poetry,  and  ranks  but  just  below  the  gi'eat  models  of  the 
first.  It  reminds  us  of  the  Pedasus  of  Achilles — 

os,  Kal  ea>t  eire^  eTTTrois  a^avaroioi- 

By  comparing  it  with  the  impotent  ravings  of  the  heroic 
tragedies,  we  may  measure  the  progress  which  the  mind  of 
Dryden  had  made.  He  had  learned  to  avoid  a too  auda- 
cious competition  with  higher  natures,  to  keep  at  a distance 
from  the  verge  of  bombast  or  nonsense,  to  venture  on  no 
expression  Avhich  did  not  convey  a distinct  idea  to  his  own 
mind.  There  is  none  of  that  darkness  visible  ” style  of 
which  he  had  formerly  affected,  and  in  which  the  greatest 
poets  only  can  succeed.  Everything  is  definite,  significant, 
and  picturesque.'  His  early  writings  resembled  the  gigantic 
works  of  those  Chinese  gardeners  who  attempt  to  rival 
nature  herself,  to  form  cataracts  of  terrific  height  and  sound, 
to  raise  precipitous  ridges  of  mountains,  and  to  imitate  in 
artificial  plantations  the  vastness  and  the  gloom  of  some 
primeval  forest.  This  manner  he  abandoned ; nor  did  he 
ever  adopt  the  Dutch  taste  which  Pope  affected,  the  trim 
parterres,  and  the  rectangular  walks.  He  rather  resembled 
our  Kents  and  Browns,  who  imitating  the  great  features  of 
landscape  without  emulating  them,  consulting  the  genius  of 
the  place,  assisting  nature  and  carefully  disguising  their  art, 
produced,  not  a Chamouni  or  a Niagara,  but  a Stowe  or  a 
Hagley. 

We  are,  on  the  whole,  inclined  to  regret  that  Dryden 
did  not  accomplish  his  purpose  of  writing  an  epic  poem.  It 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


S«9 

certainly  would  not  have  been  a work  of  the  highest  rank. 
It  would  not  have  rivalled  the  Iliad,  the  Odyssey,  or  the 
Paradise  Lost ; but  it  would  have  been  superior  to  the  pro- 
ductions of  Apollonius,  Lucan,  or  Statius,  and  not  inferior  to 
the  Jerusalem  Delivered.  It  would  probably  have  been  a 
vigorous  narrative,  animated  with  something  of  the  spirit  of 
the  old  romances,  enriched  with  much  splendid  description, 
and  interspersed  with  fine  declamations  and  disquisitions. 
The  danger  of  Dryden  would  have  been  from  aiming  too 
high ; from  dwelling  too  much,  for  example,  on  his  angels  of 
kingdoms,  and  attempting  a competition  with  that  great 
writer  who  in  his  own  time  had  so  incomparably  succeeded 
in  representing  to  us  the  sights  and  sounds  of  another  world. 
To  Milton,  and  to  Milton  alone,  belonged  the  secrets  of  the 
great  deep,  the  beach  of  sulphur,  the  ocean  of  fire,  the  pal- 
aces of  the  fallen  dominations,  glimmering  through  the  ever- 
lasting shade,  the  silent  wilderness  of  verdure  and  fragrance 
where  armed  angels  kept  watch  over  the  sleep  of  the  first 
lovers,  the  portico  of  diamond,  the  sea  of  jasper,  the  sap- 
phire pavement  empurpled  with  celestial  roses,  and  the  in- 
finite ranks  of  the  Cherubim,  blazing  with  adamant  and 
gold.  The  council,  the  tournament,  the  procession,  the 
crowded  cathedral,  the  camp,  the  guard-room,  the  chase, 
were  the  proper  scenes  for  Dryden. 

But  we  have  not  space  to  pass  in  review  all  the  works 
which  Dryden  wrote.  We,  therefore,  will  not  speculate 
longer  on  those  which  he  might  possibly  have  written.  He 
may,  on  the  whole,  be  pronounced  to  have  been  a man  pos- 
sessed of  splendid  talents,  which  he  often  abused,  and  of  a 
sound  judgment,  the  admonitions  of  which  he  often  neg- 
lected ; a man  who  succeeded  only  in  an  inferior  department 
of  his  art,  but  who,  in  that  department,  succeeded  pre-emi- 
nently ; and  who,  with  a more  independent  spirit,  a more 
anxious  desire  of  excellence,  and  more  respect  for  himself, 
sv'ould,  in  his  own  walk,  have  attained  to  absolute  perfeo- 
uon. 


270 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  vmutings. 


HISTORY* 

{Edinburgh  Review^  1828. ) 

To  write  history  respectably — that  is.  to  ahhreviate  (3^ 
spatches,  and  make  extracts  from  spceclies,  to  intersperse  in 
due  proportion  epitliets  of  praise  and  abhorrence,  to  draw 
up  antithetical  characters  of  great  men,  setting  forth  how 
many  contradictory  virtues  and  vices  they  united,  and 
abounding  in  withs  and  withouts — all  this  is  very  easy. 
But  to  be  a really  great  historian  is  perhaps  th  rarest  of 
intellectual  distinctions.  Many  scientific  works  are,  in 
their  kind,  absolutely  perfect.  There  are  poems  which  we 
should  be  inclined  to  designate  as  faultless,  or  as  disfig- 
ured only  by  blemishes  which  pass  unnoticed  in  the  general 
blaze  of  excellence.  There  are  speeches,  some  speeches  of 
Demosthenes  particularly,  in  which  it  would  be  imposs^de 
to  alter  a word  without  altering  it  for  the  worse.  But  we 
are  acquainted  with  no  history  which  approaches  to  our 
notion  of  what  a history  ought  to  be — with  no  history  which 
does  not  widely  depart,  either  on  the  right  hand  or  on  the 
left,  from  the  exact  line. 

The  cause  may  easily  be  assigned.  This  province  of 
literature  is  a debatable  land.  It  lies  on  the  confines  of  two 
distinct  territories.  It  is  under  the  jurisdiction  of  two  hos- 
tile powers ; and,  like  other  districts  similarly  situated,  it  is 
ill-defined,  ill-cultivated,  and  ill-regulated.  Instead  of  being 
equally  shared  between  its  two  rulers,  the  Reason  and  the 
Imagination,  it  falls  alternately  under  the  sole  and  absolute 
dominion  of  each.  It  is  sometimes  fiction.  It  is  sometimes 
theory. 

History,  it  has  been  said,  is  philosophy  teaching  by  ex- 
amples. Unhappily,  what  the  philosophy  gains  in  sound- 
ness and  depth  the  examples  generally  lose  in  vividness. 
A perfect  historian  must  possess  an  imagination  sufiiciently 
powerful  to  make  his  narrative  affecting  and  picturesque. 
Yet  he  must  control  it  so  absolutely  as  to  content  himself 
with  the  materials  which  he  finds,  and  to  refrain  from  supply- 
ing deficiencies  by  additions  of  his  own.  He  must  be  a pro- 

• TM  Romance  of  Uistory,  England,  By  Henry  Neele.  London,  1828. 


HISTORY. 


271 


found  and  ingenious  reasoner.  Yet  he  must  possess  sufficient 
self-command  to  abstain  from  casting  his  facts  in  the  mould  of 
his  hypothesis.  Those  who  can  justly  estimate  these  almost 
insuperable  difficulties  will  not  think  it  strange  that  every 
writer  should  have  failed,  either  in  the  narrative  or  in  the 
speculative  department  of  history. 

It  may  be  laid  down  as  a general  rule,  though  subject  to 
considerable  qualifications  and  exceptions,  that  history  begins 
in  novel  and  ends  in  essay.  Of  the  romantic  historians  He- 
rodotus is  the  earliest  and  the  best.  His  animation,  his  sim- 
ple-hearted tenderness,  his  wonderful  talent  for  description 
and  dialogue,  and  the  pure  sweet  flow  of  his  language,  place 
him  at  the  head  of  narrators.  He  reminds  us  of  a delight- 
ful child.  There  is  a grace  beyond  the  reach  of  affectation 
in  his  awkwardness,  a malice  in  his  innocence,  an  intelligence 
in  his  nonsense,  an  insinuating  eloquence  in  his  lisp.  We 
know  of  no  writer  who  makes  such  interest  for  himself  and 
his  book  in  the  heart  of  the  reader.  At  the  distance  of  three- 
and-twenty  centuries,  we  feel  for  him  the  same  sort  of  pity- 
ing fondness  which  Fontaine  and  Gay  are  said  to  have  in- 
spired in  society.  He  has  written  an  incomparable  book. 
He  has  written  something  better  perhaps  than  the  best  his- 
tory ; but  he  has  not  written  a good  history  ; he  is,  from  the 
first  to  the  last  chapter,  an  inventor.  We  do  not  here  refer 
merely  to  those  gross  fictions  with  which  he  has  been  re- 
proached by  the  critics  of  .later  times.  W e speak  of  that  col- 
oring which  is  equally  diffused  over  his  whole  narrative,  and 
which  perpetually  leaves  the  most  sagacious  reader  in  doubt 
what  to  reject  and  what  to  receive.  The  most  authentic 
parts  of  his  work  bear  the  same  relation  to  his  wildest  legends 
which.  Henr^  the  Fifth  bears  to  the  Tempest.  There  was  an 
expedition  undertaken  by  Xerxes  against  Greece ; and  there 
was  an  invasion  of  France.  There  was  a battle  at  Platsea ; 
and  there  was  a battle  at  Agincourt.  Cambridge  and  Exe- 
ter, the  Constable  and  the  Dauphin,  were  persons  as  real  as 
Demaratus  and  Pausanias.  The  harangue  of  the  Archbishop 
on  the  Salic  Law  and  the  Book  of  Numbers  differs  much 
less  from  the  orations  which  have  in  all  ages  proceeded  from 
the  right  reverend  bench  than  the  speeches  of  Mardonius 
and  Artabanus  from  those  which  were  delivered  at  the 
council-board  of  Susa.  Shakspeare  gives  us  enumerations  of 
armies,  and  returns  of  kiWed  and  wounded,  which  are  not^ 
we  suspect,  much  less  accurate  than  those  of  Herodotus 
There  are  passages  m Herodotus  nearly  as  long  as  acts  of  Shak 


272  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

speare,  in  which  everytliing  is  told  dramatically,  and  in  which 
the  narrative  serves  only  the  purpose  of  stage-directions.  It 
is  possible,  no  doubt,  that  the  substance  of  some  real  conver- 
sations may  have  been  reported  to  the  historian.  But  events, 
which,  if  they  ever  happened,  happened  in  ages  and  nations 
so  remote  that  the  particulars  could  never  have  been  known 
to  him,  are  related  with  the  greatest  minuteness  of  detail. 
We  have  all  that  Candaules  said  to  Gyges,  and  all  that  passed 
between  Astyages  and  Harpagus.  We  are,  therefore,  unable 
to  judge  whether,  in  the  account  which  he  gives  of  transac- 
tions respecting  which  he  might  possibly  have  been  well  in- 
formed, we  can  trust  to  any  thing  beyond  the  naked  outline  ; 
whether,  for  example,  the  answer  of  Gelon  to  the  ambas- 
sadors of  the  Grecian  confederacy,  or  the  expressions  which 
passed  between  Aristides  and  Themistocles  at  their  famous 
interview,  have  been  correctly  transmitted  to  us.  The  great 
events,  are,  no  doubt,  faithfully  related.  So,  probably,  are 
many  of  the  slighter  circumstances ; but  which  of  them  it  is 
impossible  to  ascertain.  The  fictions  are  so  much  like  the 
facts,  and  the  facts  so  much  like  the  fictions,  that,  with 
respect  to  many  most  interesting  particulars,  our  belief  is 
neither  given  nor  withheld,  but  remains  in  an  uneasy  and 
interminable  state  of  abeyance.  We  know  that  there  is 
truth ; but  we  cannot  exactly  decide  where  it  lies. 

The  faults  of  Herodotus  are  the  faults  of  a simple  and 
imaginative  mind.  Children  and  servants  are  remarkably 
Herodotean  in  their  style  of  narration.  They  tell  every- 
thing dramatically.  Their  says  hes  and  says  shes  are  pro- 
verbial. Every  person  who  has  had  to  settle  their  dis- 
putes knows  that,  even  when  they  have  no  intention  to 
deceive,  their  reports  of  conversation  always  require  to  be 
carefully  sifted.  If  an  educated  man  were  giving  an  account 
of  the  late  change  of  administration,  he  would  say — “ Lord 
Goderich  resigned  ; and  the  King,  in  consequence,  sent  for 
the  Duke  of  Wellington.”  A porter  tells  the  story  as  if  he 
had  been  hid  behind  the  curtains  of  the  royal  bed  at 
Windsor:  “So  Lord  Goderich  says,  ‘I  cannot  manage  this 
business ; I must  go  out.’  So  the  King  says, — says  he, 
‘ Well,  then,  I must  send  for  the  Duke  of  Wellington — that’s 
all.’  ” This  is  in  the  very  manner  of  the  father  of  history. 

Herodotus  wrote  as  it  was  natural  that  he  should  write. 
He  wrote  for  a nation  susceptible,  curious,  lively,  insatiably 
desirous  of  novelty  and  excitement ; for  a nation  in  which 
the  fine  arts  had  attained  their  highest  excellencei  but  in 


HISTORY. 


273 


which  philosophy  was  still  in  its  infancy.  His  countrymen 
had  but  recently  begun  to  cultivate  prose  composition. 
Public  transactions  had  generally  been  recorded  in  verse. 
The  first  historians  might,  therefore,  indulge  without  fear  of 
censure  in  the  license  allowed  to  their  predecessors  the  bards. 
Books  were  few.  The  events  of  former  times  were  learned 
from  popular  ballads ; the  manners  of  foreign  countries  from 
the  reports  of  travellers.  It  is  well  known  that  the  mystery 
which  overhangs  what  is  distant,  either  in  space  or  time, 
frequently  prevents  us  from  censuring  as  unnatural  what  we 
perceive  to  be  impossible.  We  stare  at  a dragoon  who  has 
killed  three  French  cuirassiers,  as  a prodigy ; yet  we  read, 
without  the  least  disgust,  how  Godfrey  slew  his  thousands, 
and  Rinaldo  his  ten  thousands.  Within  the  last  hundred 
years,  stories  about  China  and  Bantam,  which  ought  not  to 
have  imposed  on  an  old  nurse,  were  gravely  laid  down  as 
foundations  of  political  theories  by  eminent  philosophers. 
What  the  time  of  the  Crusades  is  to  us,  the  generation  of 
Croesus  and  Solon  was  to  the  Greeks  of  the  time  of  He- 
rodotus. Babylon  was  to  them  what  Pekin  was  to  the 
French  academicians  of  the  last  century. 

For  such  a people  was  the  book  of  Herodotus  composed ; 
and,  if  we  may  trust  to  a report,  not  sanctioned  indeed  by 
writers  of  high  authority,  but  in  itself  not  improbable,  it 
was  composed,  not  to  be  read,  but  to  be  heard.  It  was  not 
to  the  slow  circulation  of  a few  copies,  which  the  rich  only 
could  possess,  that  the  aspiring  author  looked  for  his  re- 
ward. The  great  Olympian  festival, — the  solemnity  which 
collected  multitudes,  proud  of  the  Grecian  name,  from  the 
wildest  mountains  of  Doris,  and  the  remotest  colonies  of 
Italy  and  Libya, — was  to  witness  his  triumph.  The  inter- 
est of  the  narrative,  and  the  beauty  of  the  style,  were  aided 
by  the  imposing  effect  of  recitation, — ^by  the  splendor  of 
the  spectacle,— by  the  powerful  influence  of  sympathy.  A 
critic  who  could  have  asked  for  authorities  in  the  midst  of 
such  a scene  must  have  been  of  a cold  and  skeptical  nature ; 
and  few  such  critics  were  there.  As  was  the  historian,  such 
were  the  auditors, — inquisitive,  credulous,  easily  moved  by 
religious  awe  or  patriotic  enthusiasm.  They  were  the  very 
men  to  hear  with  delight  of  strange  beasts,  and  birds,  and 
irees, — of  dwarfs,  and  giants,  and  cannibals, — of  gods,  whose 
very  names  it  was  impiety  to  utter, — of  ancient  dynasties, 
which  had  left  behind  them  monuments  surpassing  all  the 
works  of  later  times, — of  towns  like  provinces, rivers 


274 


macaulay’b  miscellaneous  writings. 


like  seas, — of  stupendous  walls,  and  temples,  and  pyramids. 
— of  the  rites  which  the  Maei  performed  at  daybreak  on 
the  tops  of  the  mountains, — of  tlie  secrets  inscribed  on  the 
eternal  obelisks  of  Memphis.  With  espial  delight  they  would 
have  listened  to  the  graceful  romance  of  their  own  country. 
They  now  heard  of  the  exact  accomjdishment  of  obscure 
predictions,  of  the  punishment  of  crimes  over  which  the 
justice  of  heaven  had  seemed  to  slumber, — of  dreams,  omens, 
warnings  from  the  dead, — of  princesses,  for  whom  the  noble 
suitors  contended  in  every  generous  exercise  of  strength  and 
skill, — of  infants,  strangely  preserved  from  the  dagger  of  the 
assassin,  to  fulfil  high  destinies. 

As  the  narrative  approached  their  own  times,  the  interest 
became  still  more  absorbing.  The  chronicler  had  now  to  tell 
the  story  of  that  great  conflict  from  which  Europe  dates  its 
intellectual  and  political  supremacy, — a story  which,  even  at 
this  distance  of  time,  is  the  most  marvellous  and  the  most 
touching  in  the  annals  of  the  human  race, — a story  abound- 
ing with  all  that  is  wild  and  wonderful,  with  all  that  is 
pathetic  and  animating  ; with  the  gigantic  caprices  of  infinite 
Avealth  and  despotic  power — with  the  mightier  miracles  of 
wisdom,  of  virtue,  and  of  courage.  He  told  them  of  rivers 
dried  up  in  a day, — of  provinces  famished  for  a meal, — of 
a passage  for  ships  hewn  through  the  mountains, — of  a road 
for  armies  spread  upon  the  waves, — of  monarchies  and  com- 
mon Avealths  swept  away, — of  anxiety,  of  terror,  of  confusion, 
of  despair  ! — and  then  of  proud  and  stubborn  hearts  tried  in 
that  extremity  of  evil,  and  not  found  wanting, — of  resistance 
long  maintained  against  desperate  odds, — of  lives  dearly 
sold,  Avhen  resistance  could  be  maintained  no  more, — of  sig- 
nal deli\' erance,  and  of  unsparing  revenge.  Whatever  gaA^e 
a stronger  air  of  reality  to  a narrative  so  well  calculated  to 
inflame  the  passions,  and  to  flatter  national  pride,  Avas  cer- 
tain to  be  favorably  receh^ed . 

Between  the  time  at  which  Herodotus  is  said  to  have 
composed  his  history,  and  the  close  of  the  Peloponnesian 
war,  about  forty  years  elapsed, — forty  years,  crowded  Avith 
great  military  and  political  events.  The  circumstances  ol 
that  period  produced  a great  effect  on  the  Grecian  character ; 
and  nowhere  Avas  this  effect  so  remarkable  as  in  the  illustri- 
ous democracy  of  Athens.  An  Athenian,  indeed,  even  in  the 
time  of  Herodotus,  Avould  scarcely  liave  written  a book  so 
romantic  and  garrulous  as  that  of  Herodotus.  As  civiliza' 
tion  advanced,  the  citizens  of  that  famous  republic  became 


IIISTOKV. 


21^ 

still  less  visionary,  and  still  less  simple-hearted.  They  as- 
pired to  know  where  their  ancestors  ha  dbeen  content  to 
doubt ; they  began  to  doubt  where  their  ancestors  had 
thought  it  their  duty  to  believe.  Aristophanes  is  fond  of 
alluding  to  this  change  in  the  temper  of  his  countrymen. 
The  father  and  son,  in  the  Clouds,  are  evidently  representa^ 
lives  of  the  generations  to  which  they  respectively  belonged. 
Nothing  more  clearly  illustrates  the  nature  of  this  moral 
revolution  than  the  change  Avhich  passed  ui3on  tragedy. 
The  wild  sublimity  of  ^schylus  became  the  scoff  of  every 
young  Phidippides.  Lectures  on  abstruse  points  of  philoso- 
phy, the  fine  distinctions  of  casuistry,  and  the  dazzling  fence 
of  rhetoric,  were  substituted  for  poetry.  The  language  lost 
something  of  that  infantine  sweetness  which  had  character 
ized  it.  It  became  less  like  the  ancient  Tuscan,  and  more 
like  the  modern  French. 

The  fashionable  logic  of  the  Greeks,  was,  indeed,  far 
from  strict.  Logic  never  can  be  strict  where  books  are 
scarce,  and  where  information  is  conveyed  orally.  We  are 
all  aware  how  frequently  fallacies,  which,  when  set  down  on 
paper,  are  at  once  detected,  pass  for  unanswerable  arguments 
when  dexterously  and  volubly  urged  in  Parliament,  at  the 
bar,  or  in  private  conversation.  The  reason  is  evident.  W e 
cannot  inspect  them  closely  enough  to  perceive  their  inac- 
curacy. We  cannot  readily  compare  them  with  each  other. 
We  lose  sight  of  one  part  of  the  subject  before  another, 
which  ought  to  be  received  in  connection  with  it,  comes 
before  us  ; and,  as  there  is  no  immutable  record  of  what  has 
been  admitted  and  of  what  has  been  denied,  direct  con- 
tradictions pass  muster  wil^i  little  difficulty.  Almost  all 
the  education  of  a Greek  consisted  in  talking  and  listening. 
His  opinions  on  government  were  picked  up  in  the  debates 
of  the  assembly.  If  he  wished  to  study  metaphysics,  instead 
of  shutting  himself  up  with  a book,  he  walked  down  to  the 
market-place  to  look  for  a sophist.  So  completely  were  men 
formed  to  these  habits,  that  even  writing  acquired  a conver- 
sational air.  The  philosophers  adopted  the  form  of  dialogue, 
as  the  most  natural  mode  of  communicating  knowledge. 
Their  reasonings  have  the  merits  and  the  defects  which 
belong  to  that  species  of  composition,  and  are  characterized 
rather  by  quickness  and  subtilty  than  by  depth  and  precision. 
Truth  is  exhibited  in  parts,  and  by  glimpses.  Innumerable 
clever  hints  are  given  ; but  no  sound  and  durable  system 
is  erected.  The  argumentum  ad  hominem^  a kind  of  ar 


276  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

guraent  most  efficacious  in  debate,  but  utterly  useless  for 
the  investigation  of  general  princijiles,  is  among  tlieir  fa- 
vorite resources.  Hence,  though  nothing  can  be  more  admir- 
able than  the  skill  which  Socrates  displays  in  the  conversation 
which  Plato  has  reported  or  invented,  his  victories,  for  the 
most  part,  seem  to  us  unprofitable.  A trophy  is  set  up ; 
but  no  new  province  is  added  to  the  dominions  of  the  human 
mind. 

Still,  where  thousands  of  keen  and  ready  intellects  were 
constantly  employed  in  speculating  on  the  qualities  of  ac- 
tions and  on  the  principles  of  government,  it  was  impossi- 
ble that  history  should  retain  its  old  character.  It  became 
less  gossiping  and  less  picturesque  ; but  much  more  accu- 
rate, and  somewhat  more  scientific. 

The  history  of  Thucydides  differs  from  that  of  Herodotus 
as  a portrait  differs  from  the  representation  of  an  imaginary 
scene;  as  the  Burke  or  Fox  of  Reynolds  differs  from  his 
Ugolino  or  his  Beaufort.  In  the  former  case,  the  archetype 
is  given  : in  the  latter,  it  is  created.  The  faculties  which 
are  required  for  the  latter  purpose  are  of  a higher  and  rarer 
order  than  those  which  suffice  for  the  former,  and  indeed 
necessarily  comprise  them.  He  who  is  able  to  paint  what 
he  sees  with  the  eye  of  the  mind  will  surely  be  able  to  paint 
what  he  sees  with  the  eye  of  the  body.  He  who  can  invent 
a story,  and  tell  it  well,  will  also  be  able  to  tell,  in  an  inter- 
esting manner,  a story  which  he  has  not  invented.  If,  in 
practice,  some  of  the  best  writers  of  fiction  have  been  among 
the  worst  writers  of  history,  it  has  been  because  one  of  theii 
talents  had  merged  in  another  so  completely  that  it  could 
not  be  severed  ; because,  having  long  been  habituated  to  in- 
vent and  narrate  at  the  same  time,  they  found  it  impossible 
to  narrate  without  inventing. 

Some  capricious  and  discontented  arists  have  affected  to 
consider  portrait-painting  as  unworthy  of  a man  of  genius. 
Some  critics  have  spoken  in  the  same  contemptuous  mannei 
of  history.  Johnson  puts  the  case  thus  : The  historian  tells 
either  what  is  false  or  what  is  true  : in  the  former  case  he  is 
no  historian  : in  the  latter  he  has  no  opportunity  for  dis- 
playing his  abilities  : for  truth  is  one  ; and  all  who  tell  the 
truth  must  tell  it  alike. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  elude  both  the  horns  of  this  dilemma. 
W e will  recur  to  the  analogous  art  of  portrait-painting.  Any 
man  with  eyes  and  hands  may  be  taught  to  take  a likeness. 
The  process,  up  to  a certain  point,  is  merely  mechanical.  If 


HISTORY. 


277 


this  were  all,  a man  of  talents  might  justly  despise  the  oc- 
cupation. But  we  could  mention  portraits  which  are  re- 
semblances,— but  not  mere  resemblances  ; faithful, — but 
much  more  than  faithful;  portraits  which  condense  into 
one  point  of  time,  and  exhibit,  at  a single  glance,  the  whole 
history  of  turbid  and  eventful  lives  — in  which  the  eye 
seems  to  scrutinize  us,  and  the  mouth  to  command  us — in 
which  the  brow  menaces,  and  the  lip  almost  quivers  with 
scorn — in  which  every  wrinkle  is  a comment  on  some  im- 
portant transaction.  The  account  which  Thucydides  has 
given  of  the  retreat  from  Syracuse  is,  among  narratives, 
what  Vandykes  Lord  Strafford  is  among  paintings. 

Diversity,  it  is  said,  implies  error  : truth  is  one,  and  ad- 
mits of  no  degrees.  Wo  answer,  that  this  principle  holds 
good  only  in  abstract  reasonings.  When  we  talk  of  the  truth 
of  imitation  in  the  fine  arts,  Ave  mean  an  imperfect  and  a 
graduated  truth.  No  picture  is  exactly  like  the  original; 
nor  is  a picture  good  in  proportion  as  it  is  like  the  original. 
When  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  paints  a handsome  peeress,  he 
does  not  contemplate  her  through  a powerful  microscope, 
and  transfer  to  the  canvas  the  pores  of  the  skin,  the  blood 
vessels  of  the  eye,  and  all  the  other  beauties  Avhich  Gulliver 
discovered  in  the  Brobdignaggian  maids  of  honor.  If  he 
were  to  do  this,  the  effect  would  not  merely  be  unpleasant, 
but,  unless  the  scale  of  the  picture  Avere  proportionably  en- 
larged, would  be  absolutely  false.  And,  after  all,  a micro- 
scope of  greater  poAver  than  that  which  he  had  employed 
Avould  convict  him  of  innumerable  omissions.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  history.  Perfectly  and  absolutely  true  it 
cannot  be : for,  to  be  perfectly  and  absolutely  true,  it  ought 
to  record  all  the  slightest  particulars  of  the  slightest  trans- 
actions— all  the  things  done  and  all  the  Avords  uttered  dur- 
ing the  time  of  wdiich  it  treats.  The  omission  of  any  cir- 
cumstance, hoAvever  insignificant,  would  be  a defect.  If 
history  Avere  written  thus,  the  Bodleian  library  would  not 
contain  the  occurrences  of  a week.  What  is  told  in  the 
fullest  and  most  accurate  annals  bears  an  infinitely  small 
proportion  to  Avhat  is  suppressed.  The  difference  between 
the  copious  work  of  Clarendon  and  the  account  of  the  civil 
wars  in  the  abridgment  of  Goldsmith  vanishes  when  com- 
pared with  the  immense  mass  of  facts  respecting  which 
both  are  equally  silent. 

No  picture,  then,  and  no  history,  can  present  us  with  the 
whole  truth : but  those  are  the  best  pictures  and  the  best 


278 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


histories  wliich  exhibit  sucli  parts  of  the  truth  as  most  nearly 
produce  the  effeft  of  tlie  whole,  lie  who  is  deficient  in  the 
art  of  selection  may,  l)y  showing  nothing  but  the  truth,  pro* 
duce  all  the  effect  of  the  grossest  falsehood.  It  perpetually 
happens  that  one  writer  tells  less  truth  than  another,  merely 
because  he  tells  more  truths.  In  the  imitative  arts  we  con- 
stantly see  this.  There  are  lines  in  the  human  face,  and  ob- 
jects in  landscape,  which  stand  in  such  relations  to  each 
other,  that  they  ought  either  to  be  all  introduced  into  a 
painting  together  or  all  omitted  together.  A sketch  into 
which  none  of  them  enters  may  be  excellent ; but,  if  some 
are  given  and  others  left  out,  though  there  are  more  points 
of  likeness,  there  is  less  likeness.  An  outline  scrawled  with 
Si  pen,  which  seizes  the  marked  features  of  a countenance, 
will  give  a much  stronger  idea  of  it  than  a bad  painting  in 
oils.  Yet  the  w^orst  painting  in  oils  that  ever  hung  at  Som- 
erset House  resembles  the  original  in  many  more  particulars. 
A bust  of  white  marble  may  give  an  excellent  idea  of  a 
blooming  face.  Color  the  lips  and  cheeks  of  the  bust,  leav- 
ing the  hair  and  eyes  unaltered,  and  the  similarity,  instead 
of  being  more  striking,  will  be  less  so. 

History  has  its  foreground  and  its  background  : and  it  is 
principally  in  the  management  of  its  perspective  that  one 
artist  differs  from  another.  Some  events  must  be  repre- 
sented on  a large  scale,  others  diminished  ; the  great  major- 
ity will  be  lost  in  the  dimness  of  the  horizon  ; and  a general 
idea  of  their  joint  effect  will  be  given  by  a few  slight 
touches. 

In  this  respect  no  writer  has  ever  equalled  Thucydides. 
He  was  a perfect  master  of  the  art  of  gradual  diminution. 
His  history  is  sometimes  as  concise  as  a chronological  chart ; 
yet  it  is  always  perspicuous.  It  is  sometimes  as  minute  as 
one  of  Lovelace’s  letters  ; yet  it  is  never  prolix.  He  never 
fails  to  contract  and  to  expand  it  in  the  right  place. 

Thucydides  borrowed  from  Herodotus  the  practice  of 
putting  speeches  of  his  own  into  the  mouths  of  his  charac- 
ters. In  Herodotus  this  usage  is  scarcely  censurable.  It  ia 
of  a piece  vdth  his  whole  manner.  But  it  is  altogether  in- 
congruous in  the  work  of  his  successor,  and  violates,  not 
only  the  accuracy  of  history,  but  the  decencies  of  fiction. 
When  once  we  enter  into  the  spirit  of  Herodotus,  we  find 
no  inconsistency.  1 he  conventional  probability  of  his  drama 
is  preserved  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  The  deliberate 
orations,  and  the  familiar  dialogues  are  in  strict  keeping  with 


HISTORY. 


279 


each  other.  But  the  speeches  of  Thucydides  are  neither 
preceded  nor  followed  by  anything  with  which  they  harmo- 
nize. They  give  to  the  whole  book  something  of  the  grotesque 
character  of  those  Chinese  pleasure-grounds  in  which  per- 
pendicular rocks  of  granite  start  up  in  the  midst  of  a soft 
green  plain.  Invention  is  shocking  where  truth  is  in  such 
close  juxtaposition  with  it. 

Thucydides  honestly  tells  us  that  some  of  these  discourses 
are  purely  fictitious.  He  may  have  reported  the  substance 
of  others  correctly.  But  it  is  clear  from  the  internal  evi- 
dence that  he  has  preserved  no  more  than  the  supstance. 
His  own  peculiar  habits  of  thought  and  expression  are  every- 
where discernible.  Individual  and  national  peculiarities 
are  seldom  to  be  traced  in  the  sentiments,  and  never  in  the 
diction.  The  oratory  of  the  Corinthians  and  Thebans  is  not 
less  Attic,  either  in  mj^tter  or  in  manner,  than  that  of  the 
Athenians.  The  style  of  Cleon  is  as  pure,  as  austere,  as 
terse,  and  as  significant,  as  that  of  Pericles. 

In  spite  of  this  great  fault,  it  must  be  allowed  that  Thucy- 
dides has  surpassed  all  his  rivals  in  the  art  of  historical  nar  - 
ration, in  the  art  of  producing  an  effect  on  the  imagination, 
by  skilful  selection  and  disposition,  without  indulging  in 
the  license  of  invention.  But  narration,  though  an  impor- 
tant part  of  the  business  of  a historian,  is  not  the  whole.  To 
append  a moral  to  a work  of  fiction  is  either  useless  or  super- 
fluous. A fiction  may  give  a more  impressive  effect  to  what 
is  already  known  ; but  it  can  teach  nothing  new.  If  it  pre- 
sents to  us  characters  and  trains  of  events  to  which  our  ex- 
perience furnishes  us  with  nothing  similar,  instead  of  deriving 
instruction  from  it,  we  pronounce  it  unnatural.  We  do  not 
form  our  opinions  from  it ; but  we  try  it  by  our  precon- 
ceived opinions.  Fiction,  therefore,  is  essentially  imitative. 
Its  merit  consists  in  its  resemblance  to  a model  with  which 
we  are  already  familiar,  or  to  which  at  least  we  can  instantly 
refer.  Hence  it  is  that  the  anecdotes  which  interest  us  most 
strongly  in  authentic  narrative  are  offensive  when  intro^ 
duced  into  novels ; that  what  is  called  the  romantic  part  of 
history  is  in  fact  the  least  romantic.  It  is  delightful  aa 
history,  because  it  contradicts  our  previous  notions  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  of  the  connection  of  causes  and  effects. 
It  is,  on  that  very  account,  shocking  and  incongruous  in 
fiction.  In  fiction,  the  principles  arc  given,  to  find  the  facts  ; 
in  history,  the  facts  are  given,  to  find  the  principles ; and 
the  writer  who  does  not  explain  the  phenomena  as  well  aa 


280  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

state  them  performs  only  one  lialf  of  liis  oftice.  Facts  are 
the  mere  dross  of  liistory.  It  is  from  tlic  abstract  trull* 
which  interpenetrates  them,  and  lies  latent  among  tliem  like 
gold  in  the  ore,  that  tlie  mass  derives  its  wliole  value  : and 
the  precious  particles  are  generally  combined  with  the  baser 
in  such  a manner  that  the  separation  is  a task  of  the  utmost 
difficulty. 

Here  Thucydides  is  deficient : the  deficiency,  indeed,  is 
not  discreditable  to  him.  It  was  the  inevitable  effect  of  cir- 
cumstances. It  was  in  the  nature  of  things  necessary  that, 
in  some  part  of  its  progress  through  political  science,  the 
human  mind  should  reach  that  point  which  it  attained  in 
his  time.  Knowledge  advances  by  steps,  and  not  by  leaps. 
The  axioms  of  an  English  debating  club  would  have  been 
startling  and  mysterious  paradoxes  to  the  most  enlightened 
statesmen  of  Athens.  But  it  would  as  absurd  to  speak 
contemptuously  of  the  Athenian  on  this  account  as  to  ridi- 
cule Strabo  for  not  having  given  us  an  account  of  Chili,  or 
to  talk  of  Ptolemy  as  we  talk  of  Sir  Richard  Phillips.  Stillj 
when  we  wish  for  solid  geographical  information,  we  must 
prefer  the  solemn  coxcombry  of  Pinkerton  to  the  noble 
work  of  Strabo.  If  we  wanted  instruction  respecting  the 
solar  system,  we  should  consult  the  silliest  girl  from  a board- 
ing school,  rather  than  Ptolemy. 

Thucydides  was  undoubtedly  a sagacious  and  reflecting 
man.  This  clearly  appears  from  the  ability  with  which  he 
discusses  practical  questions.  But  the  talent  of  deciding  on 
the  circumstances  of  a particular  case  is  often  possessed  in 
the  highest  perfection  by  persons  destitute  of  the  power  of 
generalization.  Men  skilled  in  the  military  tactics  of  civil- 
ized nations  have  been  amazed  at  the  far-sightedness  and 
penetration  which  a Mohawk  displays  in  concerting  his 
stratagems,  or  in  discerning  those  of  his  enemies.  In  Eng- 
land, no  class  possesses  so  much  of  that  peculiar  ability 
v/hich  is  required  for  constructing  ingenious  schemes,  and 
for  obviating  remote  difficulties,  as  the  thieves  and  the  thief- 
takers.  Women  have  more  of  this  dexterity  than  men. 
Lawyers  have  more  of  it  than  statesmen  : statesmen  have 
more  )f  it  than  philosophers.  Monk  had  more  of  it  than 
Harrington  and  his  club.  Walpole  had  more  of  it  than 
Adam  Smith  or  Beccaria.  Indeed,  the  species  of  discipline 
by  which  this  dexterity  is  acquired  tends  to  contract  the 
mind,  and  to  render  it  incapable  of  abstract  reasoning. 

The  Grecian  stata^on  ai  the  age  of  Thucydides  were 


HISTORY. 


281 


distinguislied  by  their  practical  sagacity,  tlieii  insight  into 
motives,  their  skill  in  devising  means  for  the  attainment  of 
their  ends.  A state  of  society  in  which  the  rich  were  con- 
stantly planning  the  oppression  of  the  poor,  and  the  poor 
the  spoliation  of  the  rich,  in  which  the  ties  of  party  had  su- 
perseded those  of  country,  in  which  revolutions  and  counter 
revolutions  were  events  of  daily  occurrence,  was  naturally 
prolific  in  desperate  and  crafty  political  adventurers.  This 
was  the  very  school  in  which  men  were  likely  to  acquire 
the  dissimulation  of  Mazarin,  the  judicious  temerity  of  Riche- 
lieu, the  penetration,  the  exquisite  tact,  the  almost  instinct- 
ive presentiment  of  approaching  events  which  gave  so 
mucli  authority  to  the  counsel  of  Shaftesbury  that  ‘‘  it  was 
as  if  a man  had  inquired  of  the  oracle  of  God.”  In  this 
school  Thucydides  studied ; and  his  wisdom  is  that  which 
such  a school  would  naturally  afford.  He  judges  better  of 
circumstances  than  of  principles.  The  more  a question  is 
narrowed,  the  better  he  reasons  upon  it.  His  work  suggests 
many  most  important  considerations  respecting  the  first 
principles  of  government  and  morals,  the  growth  of  factions, 
the  organization  of  armies,  and  the  mutual  relations  of  com- 
munities. Yet  all  his  general  observations  on  these  subjects 
are  very  superficial.  His  most  judicious  remarks  differ 
from  the  remarks  of  a really  philosophical  historian,  as  a 
sum  correctly  cast  up  by  a book-keeper  from  a general  ex- 
pression discovered  by  an  algebraist.  The  former  is  useful 
only  in  a single  transaction ; the  latter  may  be  applied  to  an 
infinite  number  of  cases. 

This  opinion  will,  we  fear,  be  considered  as  heterodox. 
For,  not  to  speak  of  the  illusion  which  the  sight  of  a Greek 
type,  or  the  sound  of  a Greek  diphthong,  often  produces,  there 
are  some  peculiarities  in  the  manner  of  Thucydides  which 
in  no  small  degree  have  tended  to  secure  to  him  the  reputa- 
tion of  profundity.  His  book  is  evidently  the  book  of  a 
man  and  a statesmen ; and  in  this  respect  presents  a remark- 
able  contrast  to  the  delightful  childishness  of  Herodotus. 
Throughout  it  there  is  an  air  of  matured  power,  of  grave  and 
melancholy  reflection,  of  impartiality  and  habitual  self-com- 
mand. His  feelings  are  rarely  indulged,  and  speedily  re- 
pressed. Vulgar  prejudices  of  every  kind,  and  particularly 
vulgar  superstitions,  he  treats  with  a cold  and  sober  disdain 
peculiar  to  himself.  His  style  is  weighty,  condensed,  anti- 
thetical, and  not  unfre'quently  obscure.  But,  when  we  look 
at  his  political  philosophy,  without  regard  to  these  circum'' 


•282 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


stances,  we  find  him  to  have  been  what  indeed  it  would  have 
been  a miracle  if  he  had  not  been,  simply  an  Athenian  of  the 
(iftli  century  before  Christ. 

Xenophon  is  commonly  placed,  but  we  think  without 
much  reason,  in  the  same  rank  with  Herodotus  and  Thucy- 
dides. lie  resembles  them,  indeed,  in  the  purity  and  swcet- 
iiGso  of  his  style  ; but,  in  spirit,  lie  rather  resembles  that 
later  school  of  historians,  whose  works  seem  to  be  fables 
composed  for  a moral,  and  who,  in  their  eagerness  tc  givo 
us  warnings  and  examples,  forget  to  give  us  men  and 
womoii.  The  Life  of  Cyrus,  whether  we  look  upon  it  as  a 
histoiy  or  as  a romance,  seems  to  us  a very  wretched  per- 
formance. The  expedition  of  the  Ten  Thousand,  and  the 
Ilistov}-  of  Grecian  Affairs,  are  certainly  pleasant  reading ; 
but  they  indicate  no  great  power  of  mind.  In  truth,  Xeno- 
phon, though  his  taste  was  elegant,  his  disposition  amiable, 
and  his  intercourse  with  the  world  extensive,  had,  we 
suspect,  rather  a v:eak  head.  Such  was  evidently  the  opin- 
ion of  that  extraordinary  man  to  whom  he  early  attached  him- 
self, and  for  whose  memory  he  entertained  an  idolatrous 
veneration.  He  came  in  only  for  the  niilk  with  which  Soc- 
rates nourished  his  babes  in  philosophy.  A few  saws  of 
morality,  and  a few  of  the  simplest  doctrines  of  natural  re- 
ligion, weie  enough  for  the  good  young  man.  The  strong 
meat,  the  bold  speculations  on  physical  and  metaphysical 
science,  were  reserved  for  auditors  of  a different  description. 
Even  the  lawless  habits  of  a captain  of  mercenary  troops 
could  not  change  the  tendency  which  the  character  of  Xeno- 
phon early  acquired.  To  the  last,  he  seems  to  have  retained 
a sort  of  heathen  Puritanism.  The  sentiments  of  piety  and 
virtue  which  abound  in  his  works  are  those  of  a well-mean- 
ing man,  somewhat  timid  and  narrow-minded,  devout  from 
constitution  rather  than  from  rational  conviction.  He  was 
as  superstitious  as  Herodotus,  but  in  a Avay  far  more  offen- 
sive. The  very  peculiarities  which  charm  us  in  an  infant, 
the  toothless  mumbling,  the  stammering,  the  tottering,  the 
helplessness,  the  causeless  tears  and  laughter,  are  disgusting 
in  old  age.  In  the  same  manner,  the  absurdity  which 
precedes  a period  of  general  intelligence  is  often  pleasing ; 
that  which  follows  it  is  contemj^tible.  The  nonsense  of 
Herodotus  is  that  of  a baby.  The  nonsense  of  Xenophon  is 
that  of  a dotard.  His  stories  about  di  earns,  omens,  and 
[)i*ophecies,  present  a strange  contrast  to  the  passages  in 
which  the  shrewd  and  incredulous  Thucydides  mentions  the 


mSTOBY. 


283 


popular  superstitions.  It  is  not  quite  clear  that  Xenophon 
was  honest  in  his  credulity ; his  fanaticism  was  in  some 
degree  politic.  He  would  have  made  an  excellent  member 
of  the  Apostolic  Camarilla.  An  alarmist  by  nature,  an  aristo- 
crat by  party,  he  carried  to  an  unreasonable  excess  his  hor- 
ror of  popular  turbulence.  The  quiet  atrocity  of  Sparta  did 
not  shock  him  in  the  same  manner  ; for  he  hated  tumult  more 
than  crimes.  . lie  was  desirous  to  find  restraints  which 
might  curb  the  passions  of  the  multitude  ; and  he  absurdly 
fancied  that  he  had  found  them  in  a religion  without  evi- 
dences or  sanction,  precepts  or  example,  in  a frigid  system 
of  Theopliilanthropy,  supported  by  nursery  tales. 

Polybius  and  Arrian  have  given  us  authentic  accounts 
of  facts ; and  here  their  merit  ends.  They  were  not  men 
of  comprehensive  mi^j^s ; they  had  not  the  art  of  telling  a 
story  in  an  interesting  manner.  They  have  in  t^onsequence 
been  thrown  into  the  shade  by  writers  who,  though  less 
studious  of  truth  than  themselves,  understood  far  better  the 
art  of  jDi’oducing  effect, — by  Livy  and  Quintus  Curtius. 

Yet  Polybius  and  Arrian  deserve  high  praise  when  com- 
pared with  the  writers  of  that  school  of  which  Plutarch 
may  be  considered  as  the  head.  For  the  historians  of  this 
class  we  must  confess  that  we  entertain  a peculiar  aversion. 
They  seem  to  have  been  pedants,  who,  though  destitute  of 
those  valuable  qualities  which  arc  frequently  found  in  con- 
junction with  jDedantry,  thought  themselves  great  philoso- 
phers and  great  i^oliticians.  They  not  only  mislead  their 
readers  in  every  page,  as  to  particular  facts,  but  they  ap|3ear 
to  have  altogether  misconceived  the  whole  character  of  the 
times  of  which  they  write.  They  were  inhabitants  of  an 
empire  bounded  by  the  Atlantic  Ocean  and  the  Euphrates, 
by  the  ice  of  Scythia  and  the  sands  of  Mauritania ; com- 
posed of  nations  whose  manners,  whose  languages,  whose 
religion,  Tvhose  countenances  and  complexions,  were  widely 
different;  governed  by  one  mighty  despotism,  which  had 
risen  on  the  ruins  of  a thousand  commonwealths  and  king- 
doms. Of  liberty,  such  as  it  is  in  small  democracies,  of  pa- 
triotism, such  as  it  is  in  small  independent  communities  of 
any  kind,  they  had  and  they  could  have,  no  experimental 
knowledge.  But  they  had  read  of  men  who  exerted  them- 
selves in  the  cause  of  their  country  with  an  energy  un- 
known in  later  times,  who  had  violated  the  dearest  of  do- 
mestic charities,  or  voluntarily  devoted  themselves  to  death, 
for  the  public  good ; and  they  wondered  at  the  degeneracy 


284  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

of  their  contemporaries.  It  never  occurred  to  them  that 
the  feelings  which  they  so  greatly  admired  sprung  from 
local  and  occasional  causes  ; that  they  will  always  grow  up 
spontaneously  in  small  societies  ; and  that,  in  large  empires, 
though  they  may  be  forced  into  existence  for  a short  time 
by  peculiar  circumstances,  they  cannot  be  general  or  per- 
manent. It  is  impossible  that  any  man  should  feel  for  a 
fortress  on  a remote  frontier  as  he  feels  for  his  own  house  ; 
that  he  should  grieve  for  a defeat  in  which  ten  thousand 
people  whom  he  never  saw  have  fallen  as  he  grieves  for  a 
defeat  which  has  half  unpeo]3led  the  street  in  w hich  he  lives  ; 
that  he  should  leave  his  home  for  a military  expedition  in 
order  to  preserve  the  balance  of  pow  er,  as  cheerfully  as  he 
w^ould  leave  it  to  repel  invaders  who  had  begun  to  burn  all 
the  corn  fields  in  his  neighborhood.  # 

The  wrifers  of  w^hom  w^e  speak  should  have  considered 
this.  They  should  have  considered  that  in  patriotism,  such 
as  it  existed  amongst  the  Greeks,  there  w’^as  nothing  es- 
sentially and  eternally  good ; that  an  exclusive  attachment 
to  a particular  society,  though  a natural,  and,  under  certain 
restrictions,  a most  useful  sentiment,  implies  no  extraordi- 
nary attainments  in  wdsdom  or  virtue  ; that,  w here  it  has 
existed  in  an  intense  degree,  it  has  turned  states  into  gangs 
of  robbers  whom  their  mutual  fidelity  has  rendered  more 
dangerous,  has  given  a character  of  peculiar  atrocity  to  war, 
and  has  generated  that  w^orst  of  all  political  evils,  the  tyranny 
of  nations  over  nations. 

Enthusiastically  attached  to  the  name  of  liberty,  these 
liistorians  troubled  themselves  little  about  its  definition. 
The  Spartans,  tormented  by  ten  thousand  absurd  restraints, 
unable  to  please  themselves  in  the  choice  of  their  wdves, 
their  suppers,  or  their  company,  compelled  to  assume  a 
peculiar  manner,  and  to  talk  in  a peculiar  style,  gloried  in 
their  liberty.  The  aristocracy  of  Rome  repeatedly  made 
liberty  a plea  for  cutting  off  the  favorites  of  the  people. 
In  almost  all  the  little  commonwealths  of  antiquity,  liberty 
was  used  as  a pretext  for  measures  directed  against  every- 
thing which  makes  liberty  valuable,  for  measures  which 
stifled  discussion,  corrupted  the  administration  of  justice, 
and  discouraged  the  accumulation  of  property.  The  wudters, 
whose  works  w^eare  considering,  confounded  the  sound  with 
the  substance,  and  the  means  w ith  the  end.  Their  imagina- 
tions w^ere  inflamed  by  mystery.  They  conceived  of  liberty 
as  monks  conceive  of  love,  as  cockneys  conceive  of  the  happi- 


HISTORY. 


286 


ness  and  innocence  of  rural  life,  as  novel-reading  sc.mpstresses 
conceive  of  Alinack’s  and  Grosvenor  Square,  accomplished 
Marquesses  and  handsome  Colonels  of  the  Guards.  In  the 
relation  of  events,  and  the  delineation  of  characters,  tliey 
have  paid  little  attention  to  facts,  to  the  costume  of  the 
times  of  whicli  they  pretend  to  treat,  or  to  the  general  prin- 
ciples of  human  nature.  They  have  been  faithful  only  to 
their  own  puerile  and  extravagant  doctrines.  Generals  and 
statesmen  are  metamorphosed  into  magnanimous  coxcombs, 
from  whose  fulsome  virtues  we  turn  away  with  disgust. 
The  fine  sayings  and  exploits  of  their  heroes  remind  us  of  the 
insufferable  perfections  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and  affect 
us  with  a nausea  similar  to  that  which  we  feel  when  an  actor, 
in  one  of  Morton’s  or  Kotzebue’s  plays,  lays  his  hand  on  his 
heart,  advances  to  the  ground-lights,  and  mouths  a moral 
sentence  for  the  edification  of  the  gods. 

These  writers,  men  who  knew  not  what  it  was  to  have  a 
country,  men  who  had  never  enjoyed  political  rights,  brought 
into  fashion  an  offensive  cant  about  patriotism  and  zeal  for 
freedom.  What  the  English  Puritans  did  for  the  language 
of  Christianity,  what  Scuderi  did  for  the  language  of  love, 
they  did  for  the  language  of  public  spirit.  By  habitual 
exaggeration  they  made  it  mean.  By  monotonous  emphasis 
they  made  it  feeble.  They  abused  it  till  it  became  scarcely 
possible  to  use  it  with  effect. 

Their  ordinary  rules  of  morality  are  deduced  from  ex- 
treme cases.  The  common  regimen  which  they  prescribe 
for  society  is  made  up  of  those  desperate  remedies  which 
only  its  most  desperate  distempers  require.  They  look  with 
peculiar  complacency  on  actions  which  even  those  who 
approve  them  consider  as  exceptions  to  laws  of  almost 
universal  application — which  bear  so  close  an  affinity  to  the 
most  atrocious  crimes  that,  even  where  it  may  be  unjust  to 
censure  them,  it  is  unsafe  to  praise  them.  It  is  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  some  flagitious  instances  of  perfidy  and 
cruelty  should  have  been  passed  unchallenged  in  such  com- 
pany, that  grave  moralists,  with  no  personal  interest  at  stake, 
should  have  extolled,  in  the  highest  terms,  deeds  of  which 
the  atrocity  appalled  even  the  infuriated  factions  in  whose 
cause  they  were  perpetrated.  The  part  which  Timoleon 
took  in  the  assassination  of  his  brother  shocked  many  of 
his  own  partisans.  The  recollection  of  it  preyed  long  on  hia 
own  mind.  But  it  was  reserved  for  historians  who  lived 
some  centuries  later  to  discover  that  his  conduct  was  a 


28G 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


glorious  display  of  virtue,  and  to  lament  that,  from  the  frailty 
of  Iniman  nature,  a man  who  could  perform  so  great  an 
exploit  could  rej>ent  of  it. 

The  writings  of  these  men,  and  of  their  modern  imitators^ 
have  produced  effects  which  deserve  some  notice.  The  Eng- 
lish have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  political  speculation, 
and  have  enjoyed  so  large  a measure  of  practical  liberty, 
that  such  works  have  produced  little  effect  on  their  minds. 

We  have  classical  associations  and  great  names  of  our  own 
which  we  can  confidently  oppose  to  the  most  splendid  of 
ancient  times.  Senate  has  not  to  our  ears  a sound  so 
venerable  as  Parliament.  We  respect  the  Great  Charter 
more  than  the  laws  of  Solon.  The  Capitol  and  the  Forum 
impress  us  with  less  awe  than  our  own  Westminster  Hall  ^ 
and  Westminster  Abbey,  the  place  where  the  great  men  of  \ 
twenty  generations  have  contended,  the  place  where  they  sleep  I 
together  ! The  list  of  warriors  and  statesmen  by  whom  our  \ 
constitution  was  founded  or  preserved,  from  De  Montfort  i 
down  to  Fox,  may  well  stand  a comparison  with  the  Fasti  | 
of  Rome.  The  dying  thanksgiving  of  Sydney  is  as  noble  as  > 
the  libation  which  Thrasea  poured  to  Liberating  Jove  : and  ^ 

Ave  think  with  far  less  pleasure  of  Cato  tearing  out  his  en-  i 

trails  than  of  Russell  saying,  as  he  turned  away  from  his 
wife,  that  tlie  bitterness  of  death  was  past.  Even  those 
parts  of  our  history  over  which,  on  some  accounts,  we  would 
gladly  throAV  a veil,  may  be  proudly  opposed  to  those  on 
which  the  moralists  of  antiquity  loved  most  to  dwell.  The 
enemy  of  English  liberty  was  not  murdered  by  men  whom 
he  had  pardoned  and  loaded  with  benefits.  He  was  not 
stabbed  in  the  back  by  those  who  smiled  and  cringed  before  ^ 
liis  face.  He  was  vanquished  on  fields  of  stricken  battle  ; he 
was  arraigned,  sentenced,  and  executed  in  the  face  of  heaven 
and  earth.  Our  liberty  is  neither  Greek  nor  Roman  ; but  3 

essentially  English.  It  has  a character  of  its  own,  — a t 

character  which  has  taken  a tinge  from  the  sentiments 
of  the  chivalrous  ages,  and  which  accords  with  the  pecu-  ^ 
liarities  of  our  manners  and  of  our  insular  situation.  It  has 
a language,  too,  of  its  own,  and  a language  singularly  idio-  1 
matic,  full  of  meaning  to  ourselves,  scarcely  intelligible  to  j 
strangers.  ^ 

Here,  therefore,  the  effect  of  books  such  as  those  Avhich  ^ 
we  have  been  considering  has  been  harmless.  They  have,  | 
indeed,  given  currency  to  many  very  erroneous  opinions 
W^ith  respect  to  ancient  bistory.  They  have  heated  the  ^ 


HISTORY. 


287 


imaginations  of  boys.  They  have  misled  the  judgment  and 
corrupted  the  taste  of  some  men  of  letters,  such  as  Akenside 
and  Sir  William  Jones.  But  on  persons  engaged  in  public 
affairs  they  have  had  very  little  influence,  llie  foundations 
of  our  constitution  were  laid  by  men  who  knew  nothing  of 
the  Greeks  but  that  they  denied  the  orthodox  procession 
and  cheated  tlie  Crusaders  ; and  nothing  of  Rome,  but  that 
the  Pope  lived  there.  Those  who  followed,  contented  them^ 
selves  with  improving  on  the  original  plan.  They  found 
models  at  home  ; and  therefore  they  did  not  look  for  them 
abroad.  But,  when  enlightened  men  on  the  Continent  began 
to  think  about  political  reformation,  having  no  patterns 
before  their  eyes  in  their  domestic  history,  they  naturally 
had  recourse  to  those  remains  of  antiquity,  the  study  of 
which  is  considered  throughout  Europe  as  an  important  part 
of  education.  The  historians  of  whom  we  have  been  speak- 
ing had  been  members  of  large  communities,  and  subjects 
of  absolute  sovereigns.  Hence  it  is,  as  we  have  already  said, 
that  they  commit  such  gross  errors  in  speaking  of  the  little 
republics  of  antiquity.  Their  works  were  now  read  in  the 
spirit  in  which  they  had  been  written.  They  were  read  by 
men  placed  in  circumstances  closely  resembling  their  own, 
unacquainted  with  the  real  nature  of  liberty,  but  inclined 
to  believe  everything  good  which  could  be  told  respecting 
it.  How  powerfully  these  books  impressed  these  speculative 
reformers,  is  well  known  to  all  who  have  paid  any  attention 
to  the  French  literature  of  the  last  century.  But,  perhaps, 
the  writer  on  whom  they  produced  the  greatest  effect  was 
Vittorio  Alfieri.  In  some  of  liis  plays,  particularly  in 
Virginia,  Timoleon,  and  Brutus  the  Younger,  he  has  even 
caricatured  the  extravagance  of  his  masters. 

It  was  not  strange  that  the  blind,  thus  led  by  the  blind, 
should  stumble.  The  transactions  of  the  French  Revolution 
in  some  measure,  took  their  character  from  these  works 
Without  the  assistance  of  these  works,  indeed,  a revolution 
would  have  taken  place, — a revolution  productive  of  much 
good  and  much  evil,  tremendous  but  short-lived,  evil  dearly 
purchased,  but  durable  good.  But  it  would  not  have  been 
exactly  such  a revolution.  The  style,  the  accessories,  would 
have  been  in  many  respects  different.  There  would  have 
been  less  of  bombast  in  language,  less  of  affectation  in 
manner,  less  of  solemn  trifling  and  ostentatious  simplicity. 
The  acts  of  legislative  assemblies,  and  the  correspondence 
of  diplomatists,  would  not  have  been  disgraced  by  rants 


288 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


worthy  only  of  :i  college  declamation.  The  government  of  a 
great  and  nolisiicd  nation  would  not  have  rendered  itself 
ridiculous  by  attenij)ting  to  revive  the  usages  of  a worid 
which  had  long  passed  away,  or  rather  of  a world  which  had 
never  existed  except  in  the  description  of  a fantastic  school 
of  writers.  These  second-hand  imitations  resembled  the 
originals  about  as  much  as  the  classical  feast  with  which  the 
Doctor  in  Peregrine  Pickle  turned  the  stomachs  of  all  his 
guests  resembled  one  of  the  suppers  of  Lucullus  in  the  Hall 
of  Apollo. 

These  were  mere  follies.  But  the  spirit  excited  by  these 
writers  produced  more  serious  effects.  The  greater  part  of 
the  crimes  which  disgraced  the  revolution  sprung  indeed 
from  the  relaxation  of  law,  from  popular  ignorance,  from 
the  remembrance  of  past  oppression,  from  the  fear  of  foreign 
conquest,  from  rapacity,  from  ambition,  from  party-spirit. 
But  many  atrocious  proceedings  must,  doubtless,  be  ascribed 
to  heated  imagination,  to  perverted  principle,  to  a distaste 
for  what  was  vulgar  in  morals,  and  a passion  for  what 
was  startling  and  dubious.  Mr.  Burke  has  touched  on  this 
subject  with  great  felicity  of  expression  : “ The  gradation 
of  their  republic,”  says  he,  “ is  laid  in  moral  paradoxes. 
All  those  instances  to  be  found  in  history,  whether  real  or 
fabulous,  of  a doubtful  public  spirit,  at  which  morality  is 
perplexed,  reason  is  staggered,  and  from  which  affrighted 
nature  recoils,  are  their  chosen  and  almost  sole  examples  for 
the  instruction  of  their  youth.”  This  evil,  we  believe,  is  to 
be  directly  ascribed  to  the  influence  of  the  historians  whom 
we  have  mentioned,  and  their  modern  imitators. 

Livy  had  some  faults  in  common  with  these  writers. 
But  on  the  whole  he  must  be  considered  as  forming  a class 
by  himself  : no  historian  with  whom  we  are  acquainted  has 
shown  so  complete  an  indifference  to  truth.  He  seems  to 
have  cared  only  about  the  picturesque  effect  of  his  book, 
and  the  honor  of  his  country.  On  the  other  hand,  we  do 
not  know,  in  the  whole  range  of  literature,  an  instance  of  a 
bad  thing  so  well  done.  The  painting  of  the  narrative  is 
beyond  description  vivid  and  graceful.  The  abundance  of 
interesting  sentiments  and  splendid  imagery  in  the  speeches 
is  almost  miraculous.  His  mind  is  a soil  which  is  never 
overteemed,  a fountain  which  never  seems  to  trickle.  It 
pours  forth  profusely  ; yet  it  gives  no  sign  of  exhaustion.  It 
was  probably  to  this  exuberance  of  thought  and  language, 
always  fresh,  always  sweet,  always  pure,  no  sooner  yielded 


msTORY.  289 

than  repaired,  that  the  critics  applied  that  expression  which 
has  been  so  much  discussed,  lactea  uhertas. 

All  the  merits  and  all  the  defects  of  Livy  take  a coloring 
from  the  character  of  his  nation.  lie  was  a writer  peculiarly 
Roman  ; the  proud  citizen  of  a commonwealth  which  had 
indeed  lost  the  reality  of  liberty,  but  which  still  sacredly 
preserved  its  forms — in  fact  the  subject  of  an  arbitrary 
prince,  but  in  his  own  estimation  one  of  the  masters  of  the 
world,  with  a hundred  kings  below  him,  and  only  the  gods 
above  him.  He,  therefore,  looked  back  on  former  times 
with  feelings  far  different  from  those  which  were  naturally 
entertained  by  his  Greek  contemporaries,  and  which  at  a 
later  period  became  general  among  men  of  letters  throughout 
the  Roman  Empire.  He  contemplated  the  past  with  interest 
and  delight,  not  because  it  furnished  a contrast  to  the  present, 
but  because  it  had  led  to  the  present.  He  recurred  to  it, 
not  to  lose  in  proud  recollections  the  sense  of  national 
degradation,  but  to  trace  the  progress  of  national  glory.  It 
is  true  that  his  veneration  for  antiquity  produced  on  him 
some  of  the  effects  which  it  produced  on  those  who  arrived 
at  it  by  a very  different  road.  He  has  something  of  their  ex- 
aggeration, something  of  their  cant,  something  of  theii 
fondness  for  anomalies  and  lusus  naturm  in  morality.  Yet 
even  here  we  perceive  a difference.  They  talk  rapturously  of 
patriotism  and  liberty  in  the  abstract.  He  does  not  seem  to 
think  any  country  but  Rome  deserving  of  love  : nor  is  it  for 
liberty  as  liberty^but  for  liberty  as  a part  of  the  Roman 
institutions,  that  he  is  zealous. 

Of  the  concise  and  elegant  accounts  of  the  campaigns  of 
Caesar  little  can  be  said.  They  are  incomparable  models 
for  military  despatches.  But  histories  they  are  not,  and  do 
not  pretend  to  be. 

The  ancient  critics  place  Sallust  in  the  same  rank  with 
Livy  ; and  unquestionably  the  small  portion  of  his  works 
which  has  come  down  to  us  is  calculated  to  give  a high 
opinion  of  his  talents.  But  his  style  is  not  very  pleasant ; 
and  his  most  powerful  Avork,  the  account  of  the  Conspiracy 
of  Catiline,  has  rather  the  air  of  a clever  party  pamphlet 
than  that  of  a history.  It  abounds  Avith  strange  incon- 
sistencies, which,  unexplained  as  they  are,  necessarily  excite 
doubts  as  to  the  fairness  of  the  narrative.  It  is  true,  that 
many  circumstances  now  forgotten  may  have  been  familial 
to  his  contemporaries,  and  may  have  rendered  passages 
clear  to  them  Avhich  to  us  appear  dubious  and  perplexing. 


260  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wettings. 

But  a great  liistorian  should  renicinher  tliat  he  writes  for 
distant  generations,  foi-  men  wlio  will  ]>ereeive  tlie  ap])areiit 
contradictions,  and  will  j)Ossess  no  means  of  reconciling  tliern. 
We  can  only  vindicate  the  hdelity  of  Sallust  at  tlic  expense 
of  his  skill.  But  in  fact  all  tlie  information  which  we  have 
from  contemporaries  respecting  this  famous  plot  is  liable  to 
the  same  objection,  and  is  read  by  discerning  men  with  the 
same  incredulity.  It  is  all  on  one  side.  No  answer  has 
reached  our  times.  Yet,  on  the  showing  of  the  accusers, 
the  accused  seem  entitled  to  acquittal.  Catiline,  we  are 
told,  intrigued  with  a Vestal  virgin,  and  murdered  his  own 
son.  II is  house  was  a den  of  gamblers  and  debauchees. 
No  young  man  could  cross  his  threshold  without  danger  to 
his  fortune  and  reputation.  Yet  this  is  the  man  wdth  whom 
Cicero  was  willing  to  coalesce  in  a contest  for  the  first  magis- 
tracy of  the  republic  ; and  whom  he  described,  long  after  the 
fatal  termination  of  the  conspiracy,  as  an  accomplished' 
hypocrite,  by  wdiom  he  had  himself  been  deceived,  and  who 
had  acted  with  consummate  skill  the  character  of  a good 
citizen  and  a good  friend.  We  are  told  that  the  plot  was 
the  most  wicked  and  desperate  ever  known,  and,  almost  in 
the  same  breath,  that  the  great  body  of  the  people,  and  many 
of  the  nobles,  favored  it ; that  the  richest  citizens  of  Rome 
were  eager  for  the  spoliation  of  all  property,  and  its  highest 
functionaries  for  the  destruction  of  all  order  ; that  Crassus, 
" Caesar,  the  Praetor  Lentulus,  one  of  the  consuls  of  the  year, 
one  of  the  consuls  elect,  were  proved  m'  suspected  to  be 
engaged  in  a scheme  for  subverting  institutions  to  which 
they  owed  the  highest  honors,  and  introducing  universal 
anarchy.  We  are  told  that  a government,  which  knew  all 
this,  suffered  the  conspirator,  whose  rank,  talents,  and  cour- 
age, rendered  him  most  dangerous,  to  quit  Rome  without 
molestation.  We  are  told  that  bondmen  and  gladiators 
were  to  be  armed  against  the  citizens.  Yet  we  find  that 
Catiline  rejected  the  slaves  who  crowded  to  enlist  in  his  army, 
lost,  as  Sallust  himself  expresses  it,  “ he  should  seem  to 
identify  their  cause  with  that  of  the  citizens.”  Finally,  we 
are  told  that  the  magistrate,  who  was  universally  allowed 
to  have  saved  all  classes  of  his  countrymen  from  conflagration 
and  massacre,  rendered  himself  so  unpopular  by  his  conduct 
that  a marked  insult  was  offered  to  him  at  the  expiration  of 
his  office,  and  a severe  punishment  inflicted  on  him  shortly 
after. 

Sallust  tells  us,  wL  ^t,  iiulc^ed,  the  letters  and  speecnes  of 


HISTORY. 


291 


Cicero  sufficiently  prove,  that  some  persons  considered  the 
locking  and  atrocious  part  of  the  plot  as  mere  inventions 
of  the  government,  designed  to  excuse  its  unconstitutional 
measures.  We  must  confess  ourselves  to  be  of  that  opinion. 
There  was,  undoubtedly,  a strong  party  desirous  to  change 
tlie  administration.  While  Pompey  held  the  command  of 
an  army,  they  could  not  effect  their  purpose  without  pre- 
paring means  for  repelling  force,  if  necessary,  by  force.  In 
all  this  there  is  nothing  different  from  the  ordinary  practice 
of  Roman  factions.  The  other  charges  brought  against  the 
conspirators  are  so  inconsistent  and  improbable,  that  we 
give  no  credit  whatever  to  them.  If  our  readers  think  this 
skepticism  unreasonable,  let  them  turn  to  the  contemporary 
accounts  of  the  Popish  plot.  Let  them  look  over  the  votes 
of  Parliament,  and  the  speeches  of  the  king ; the  charges  of 
Scroggs,  and  the  harangues  of  the  managers  employed 
against  Strafford.  A person  who  should  form  his  judgment 
from  these  pieces  alone  would  believe  that  London  was  set 
on  fire  by  the  Papists,  and  that  Sir  Edmondbury  Godfrey 
was  murdered  for  liis  religion.  Yet  these  stories  are  now 
altogether  exploded.  They  have  been  abandoned  by  states- 
men to  aldermen,  by  aldermen  to  clergymen,  by  clergymen 
to  old  women,  and  by  old  women  to  Sir  Harcourt  Lees. 

Of  the  Latin  historians,  Tacitus  was  certainly  the  great- 
est. His  style,  indeed,  is  not  only  faulty  in  itself,  but  is,  in 
some  respects,  peculiarly  unfit  for  historical  composition. 
He  carries  his  love  of  effect  far  beyond  the  limits  of  modera- 
tion. He  tells  a fine  story  finely : but  he  cannot  tell  a plain 
story  plainly.  He  stimulates  till  stimulants  lose  their  power. 
Thucydides,  as  we  have  already  observed,  relates  ordinary 
transactions  with  the  unpretending  clearness  and  succinct- 
ness of  a gazette.  His  great  powers  of  painting  he  reserves 
for  events  of  which  the  slightest  details  are  interesting. 
The  simplicity  of  the  setting  gives  additional  lustre  to  tho 
brilliants.  There  are  passages  in  the  narrative  of  Tacitus 
superior  to  the  best  which  can  be  quoted  from  Thucydides. 
But  they  are  not  enchased  and  relieved  with  the  same 
skill.  They  are  far  more  striking  when  extracted  from  tho 
body  of  the  work  to  which  they  belong  than  when  they  oc- 
cur in  their  place,  and  are  read  in  connection  with  what 
precedes  and  follows. 

In  the  delineation  of  character,  Tacitus  is  unrivalled 
among  historians,  and  has  very  few  superiors  among  drania^ 
tists  and  novelists.  By  the  delineation  of  character,  we  do 


292 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


not  mean  the  practice  of  drawing  up  epigrammatic  cata- 
logues of  good  and  bad  qualities,  and  appending  them  to  the 
names  of  eminent  men.  No  writer,  indeed,  has  done  this 
more  skilfully  than  Tacitus  ; but  this  is  not  liis  peculiar 
glory.  All  the  persons  who  occupy  a large  space  in  his 
works  have  an  individuality  of  character  which  seems  to 
pervade  all  their  words  and  actions.  We  know  them  as  if 
we  had  lived  with  them.  Claudius,  Nero,  Otho,  both  the 
Agrippinas,  are  master-pieces.  But  Tiberius  is  a still  higher 
miracle  of  art.  The  historian  undertook  to  make  us  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  a man  singularly  dark  and  .user  a* 
table, — with  a man  whose  real  disposition  long  remained 
swathed  up  in  intricate  folds  of  factitious  virtues,  and  over 
whose  actions  the  hypocrisy  of  his  youth,  and  the  seclusion 
of  his  old  age,  threw  a singular  mystery.  He  was  to  exhibit 
the  specious  qualities  of  the  tyrant  in  a light  which  might 
render  them  transparent,  and  enable  us  at  once  to  perceive 
the  covering  and  the  vices  which  it  concealed.  He  was  to 
trace  the  gradations  by  which  the  first  magistrate  of  a 
republic,  a senator  mingling  freely  in  debate,  a noble  asso- 
ciating with  his  brother  nobles,  was  transformed  into  an 
Asiatic  sultan  ; he  was  to  exhibit  a character,  distinguished 
by  courage,  self-command,  and  profound  policy,  yet  defiled 
by  all 

“ th’  extravagancy 
And  crazy  ribaldry  of  fancy.” 

He  was  to  mark  the  gradual  effect  of  advancing  age  and 
approaching  death  on  this  strange  compound  of  strength 
and  weakness  ; to  exhibit  the  old  sovereign  of  the  world 
sinking  into  a dotage  which,  though  it  rendered  his  appetites 
eccentric,  and  his  temper  savage,  never  impaired  the  powers 
of  his  stern  and  penetrating  mind — conscious  of  failing 
strength,  raging  with  capricious  sensuality,  yet  to  the  last 
the  keenest  of  observers,  the  most  artful  of  dissemblers,  and 
the  most  terrible  of  masters.  The  task  was  one  of  extreme 
difficulty.  The  execution  is  almost  perfect. 

The  talent  which  is  required  to  write  history  thus  bears 
a considerable  affinity  to  the  talent  of  a great  dramatist. 
There  is  one  obvious  distinction.  The  dramatist  creates ; 
the  historian  only  disposes.  The  difference  is  not  in  the 
mode  of  execution,  but  in  the  mode  of  conception.  Shak- 
speare  is  guided  by  a model  which  exists  in  his  imagination  ; 
Tacitus,  by  a model  furnished  from  without.  Hamlet  is  to 
Tiberius  what  the  Laocoon  is  to  the  Newton  of  Roubilliac 


HISTORY. 


293 


In  this  part  of  his  art  Tacitus  certainly  had  neither 
equal  nor  second  among  the  ancient  historians.  Herodotus, 
though  he  wrote  in  a dramatic  form,  had  little  of  dramatic 
genius.  The  frequent  dialogues  which  he  introduces  give 
vivacity  and  movement  to  the  narrative,  but  are  not  striking- 
ly characteristic.  Xenophon  is  fond  of  telling  his  read:;rs, 
at  considerable  length,  what  he  thought  of  the  persons  whose 
adventures  he  relates.  But  he  does  not  show  them  the  men, 
and  enable  them  to  judge  for  themselves.  The  heroes  of 
Livy  are  the  most  insipid  of  all  beings,  real  or  imaginary, 
the  heroes  of  Plutarch  always  excepted.  Indeed,  the  manner 
of  Plutarch  in  this  respect  reminds  us  of  the  cookery  of 
those  continental  inns,  the  horror  of  English  travellers,  in 
which  a certain  nondescript  broth  is  kept  constantly  boiling, 
and  copiously  poured,  without  distinction,  over  every  dish  as 
it  comes  up  to  table.  Thucydides,  though  at  a wide  inter- 
val, comes  next  to  Tacitus.  His  Pericles,  his  Nicias,  his 
Cleon,  his  Brasidas,  are  happily  discriminated.  The  lines 
are  few,  the  coloring  faint ; but  the  general  air  and  expres- 
sion is  caught. 

W e begin,  like  the  priest  in  Don  Quixote’s  library,  to  be 
tired  with  taking  down  books  one  after  another  for  separate 
judgment,  and  feel  inclined  to  pass  sentence  on  them  in 
masses.  We  shall  therefore,  instead  of  pointing  out  the 
defects  and  merits  of  the  different  modern  historians,  state 
generally  in  what  particulars  they  have  surpassed  their  pre- 
decessors, and  in  what  we  conceive  them  to  have  failed. 

They  have  certainly  been,  in  one  sense,  far  more  strict 
in  their  adherence  to  truth  than  most  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  writers.  They  do  not  think  themselves  entitled  to 
render  their  narrative  interesting  by  introducing  descrip- 
tions, conversations,  and  harangues  which  have  no  existence 
bat  in  their  own  imagination.  This  improvement  was  grad- 
ually introduced.  History  commenced  among  the  modern 
nations  of  Europe,  as  it  had  commenced  among  the  Greeks, 
in  romance.  Froissart  was  our  Herodotus.  Italy  was  to 
Europe  what  Athens  was  to  Greece.  In  Italy,  therefore,  a 
more  accurate  and  manly  mode  of  narration  was  early  in- 
troduced. Machiavelli  and  Guicciardini,  in  imitation  of 
Livy  and  Thucydides,  composed  speeches  for  their  historical 
personages.  But,  as  the  classical  enthusiasm  which  distin- 
guished the  age  of  Lorenzo  and  Leo  gradually  subsided,  this 
absurd  practice  was  abandoned.  In  France,  we  fear,  it 
still,  in  some  degree,  keeps  its  ground.  In  our  own  coun 


294 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WKITING8, 


try,  a,  writer  who  should  venture  on  it  would  be  laughed  to 
scorn.  Whether  the  historians  of  the  last  two  centuries 
tell  more  truth  than  tliose  of  antiquity,  may  perhaps  be 
doubted.  But  it  is  quite  certain  that  they  tell  fewer  false- 
hoods. 

In  the  philosoj)hy  of  history,  the  moderus  have  very  far 
surpassed  the  ancients.  It  is  not,  indeed,  strange  that  the 
Greeks  and  Romans  should  not  have  carried  the  science  o. 
government,  or  any  other  experimental  science,  so  far  as  it 
has  been  carried  in  our  time ; for  the  experimental  sciences 
are  generally  in  a state  of  progression.  They  were  better 
understood  in  the  seventeenth  century  than  in  the  sixteenth, 
and  in  the  eighteenth  century  than  in  the  seventeenth.  But 
this  constant  improvement,  this  natural  growth  of  knowl- 
edge, will  not  altogether  account  for  the  immense  superiority 
of  the  modern  writers.  The  difference  is  a difference  not  in 
degree  but  of  kind.  It  is  not  merely  that  new  principal's 
have  been  discovered,  but  that  new”  faculties  seem  to  be 
exerted.  It  is  not  that  at  one  time  the  human  intellect 
should  have  made  but  small  progress,  and  at  another  time 
have  advanced  far  ; but  that  at  one  time  it  should  have 
been  stationary,  and  at  another  time  constantly  proceeding. 
In  taste  and  imagination,  in  the  graces  of  style,  in  the  arts 
of  persuasion,  in  the  magnificence  of  public  works,  the 
ancients  were  at  least  our  equals.  They  reasoned  as  justly 
as  ourselves  on  subjects  which  required  pure  demonstration. 
But  in  the  moral  sciences  they  made  scarcely  any  advance. 
During  the  long  period  which  elapsed  between  the  fifth  cen- 
tury before  the  Christian  era  and  the  fifth  century  after  it 
little  perceptible  progress  was  made.  All  the  metaphysical 
discoveries  of  all  the  philosophers,  from  the  time  of  Socrates 
to  the  northern  invasion,  are  not  to  be  compared  in  impor- 
tance with  those  which  have  been  made  in  England  every 
fifty  years  since  the  time  of  Elizabeth.  There  is  not  the 
least  reason  to  believe  that  the  principles  of  government, 
legislation,  and  political  economy,  were  better  understood 
in  the  time  of  Augustus  Caesar  than  in  the  time  of  Pericles. 
In  our* own  country,  the  sound  doctrines  of  trade  and  juris- 
prudence have  been,  within  the  lifetime  of  a single  genera- 
tion, dimly  hinted,  boldly  propounded,  defended,  systema* 
tized,  adopted  by  all  reflecting  men  of  all  parties,  quoted  in 
legislative  assemblies,  incorporated  into  laws  and  treaties. 

To  what  is  this  change  to  be  attributed  ? Partly,  no 
doubt,  to  the  discovery  of  printings  a discovery  which  has 


HISTORY. 


295 


not  only  diffused  knowledge  widely,  but,  as  we  have  already 
observed,  has  also  introduced  into  reasoning  a precision  un- 
known in  those  ancient  communities,  in  whicli  information 
was,  for  the  most  part,  conveyed  orally.  There  was,  wo 
suspect,  anotlier  cause,  less  obvious,  but  still  more  powerful. 

The  spirit  of  the  two  most  famous  nations  of  antiquity 
was  remarkably  exclusive.  In  the  time  of  Homer  the 
Greeks  had  not  begun  to  consider  themselves  as  a distinct 
race.  They  still  looked  with  something  of  childish  wonder 
and  awe  on  the  riches  and  wisdom  of  Sidon  and  Egypt. 
From  what  causes,  and  by  what  gradations,  their  feelings 
underwent  a change,  it  is  not  easy  to  determine.  Their  his- 
tory, from  the  Trojan  to  the  Persian  war,  is  covered  with 
an  obscurity  broken  only  by  dim  and  'scattered  gleams  of 
truth.  But  it  is  certain  that  a great  alteration  took  place. 
They  regarded  themselves  as  a separate  people.  They  had 
common  religious  rites,  and  common  principles  of  public 
law,  in  which  foreigners  liad  no  part.  In  all  their  political 
systems,  monarchical,  aristocratical,  and  democratical,  there 
was  a strong  family  likeness.  After  the  retreat  of  Xerxes 
and  the  fall  of  Mardonius,  national  pride  rendered  the  sep- 
aration between  the  Greeks  and  the  barbarians  complete. 
The  conquerors  considered  themselves  men  of  a superior 
breed,  men  who,  in  their  intercourse  with  neighboring  na- 
tions, were  to  teach,  and  not  to  learn.  They  looked  for 
nothing  out  of  themselves.  They  borrowed  nothing.  They 
translated  nothing.  W e cannot  call  to  mind  a single  expres- 
sion of  any  Greek  writer  earlier  than  the  age  of  Augustus, 
indicating  an  opinion  that  anything  worth  reading  could  be 
written  in  any  language  except  his  own.  The  feelings  which 
sprung  from  national  glory  were  not  altogether  extinguished 
by  national  degradation.  They  were  fondly  ch  irished 
through  ages  of  slavery  and  shame.  The  literature  of  Rome 
herself  was  regarded  with  contempt  by  those  who  had  fled  be- 
fore her  arms,  and  who  bowed  beneath  her  fasces.  Voltaire 
?ays,  in  one  of  his  six  thousand  pamphlets,  that  he  was  the 
first  person  who  told  the  French  that  England  had  produced 
eminent  men  besides  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  Down 
a very  late  period,  the  Greeks  seem  to  have  stood  in  need  ot 
similar  information  with  respect  to  their  masters.  With 
Paulus  ^milius,  Sylla,  and  Caesar  they  were  well  acquainted. 
But  the  notions  which  they  entertained  respecting  Cicero 
and  Virgil  were,  probably,  not  unlike  those  which  Boileau 
in  ay  have  formed  about  Shakspeare.  Dionysius  lived  in 


29G  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

the  most  splendid  age  of  Latin  poetry  and  eloquence.  lie 
was  a critic,  and,  after  the  maniu'r  of  his  age,  an  ahlc  critic, 
lie  studied  the  language  of  Uoinc,  associated  with  its  learned 
men,  and  compiled  its  history.  Yet  he  seems  to  have 
thought  its  literature  valuable  only  for  the  purpose  of  illus- 
trating its  antiquities.  Ilis  reading  appears  to  have  been 
confined  to  its  public  records,  and  to  a few  old  annalists. 
Once,  and  but  once,  if  we  remember  rightly,  he  quotes  En- 
nius, to  solve  a question  of  etymology.  lie  has  written 
much  on  the  art  of  oratory : yet  he  has  not  mentioned  the 
name  of  Cicero. 

The  Romans  submitted  to  the  pretensions  of  a race  which 
they  dcsjjised.  Their  epic  poet,  while  he  claimed  for  them 
pre-eminence  in  the  arts  of  government  and  war,  acknowl- 
edged their  inferiority  in  taste,  eloquence,  and  science.  Men 
of  letters  affected  to  understand  the  Greek  language  better 
than  their  own.  Pomponius  preferred  the  honor  of  becom- 
ing an  Athenian,  by  intellectual  naturalization,  to  all  the 
distinctions  which  were  to  be  acquired  in  the  political  con- 
tests of  Rome.  His  great  friend  composed  Greek  poems  and 
memoirs.  It  is  w- ell  known  that  Petrarch  considered  that 
beautiful  language  in  which  his  sonnets  are  written,  as  a 
barbarous  jargon,  and  entrusted  his  fame  to  those  wretched 
Latin  hexameters  which,  during  the  last  four  centuries,  have 
scarcely  found  four  readers.  Many  eminent  Romans  appeal 
to  have  felt  the  same  contempt  for  their  native  tongue  as 
compared  with  the  Greek.  The  prejudice  continued  to  a 
very  late  period.  Julian  w^as  as  partial  to  the  Greek  lan- 
guage as  Frederic  the  Great  to  the  French:  and  it  seems 
that  he  could  not  express  himself  with  elegance  in  the  dia- 
lect of  the  state  which  he  ruled. 

Even  those  Latin  writers  who  did  not  carry  this  affecta- 
tion so  far  looked  on  Greece  as  the  only  fount  of  knowledge. 
From  Greece  they  derived  the  measures  of  their  poetry, 
and,  indeed,  all  of  poetry  that  can  be  imported.  From 
Greece  they  borrow^ed  the  principles  and  the  vocabulary  of 
their  philosophy.  To  the  literature  of  other  nations  they 
do  not  seem  to  haA^e  paid  the  slightest  attention.  The  sa- 
cred books  of  the  Hebrews,  for  example,  books  which,  con- 
sidered merely  as  human  compositions,  are  invaluable  to 
the  critic,  the  antiquarian,  and  the  philosopher,  seem  to 
have  been  utterly  unnoticed  by  them.  The  peculiarities  of 
Judaism,  and  the  ra]>id  groAvth  of  Christianity,  attracted 
their  notice.  They  made  Avar  against  the  Jews.  They 


HISTORY. 


297 


made  laws  against  the  Cliristians.  But  they  never  opened 
the  books  of  Moses  Juvenal  quotes  the  Pentateuch  with 
censure.  The  author  of  the  treatise  on  “ the  Sublime” 
quotes  it  with  praise  : but  both  of  them  quote  it  erroneously. 
When  we  consider  wliat  sublime  poetry,  what  curious  his- 
tory, what  striking  and  peculiar  views  of  the  Divine  nature 
and  of  the  social  duties  of  men,  arc  to  be  found  in  the  Jew- 
ish scriptures,  when  we  consider  that  two  sects  on  which 
the  attention  of  the  government  was  constantly  fixed  ap- 
pealed to  those  scri})turcs  as  the  rule  of  their  faith  and 
practice,  this  indifference  is  astonishing.  The  fact  seems  to 
be,  that  tlie  Greeks  admired  only  tliemselves,  and  that  the 
Romans  admired  only  themselves  and  the  Greeks.  Literary 
men  turned  away  Avith  disgust  from  modes  of  thought  and 
expression  so  Avidely  different  from  all  that  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  admire.  The  effect  was  narrowness  and 
sameness  of  thought.  Their  minds,  if  we  may  so  express 
ourselves,  bred  in  and  in,  and  were  accordingly  cursed  with 
barrenness  and  degeneracy.  No  extraneous  beauty  or  vigor 
was  engrafted  on  the  decaying  stock.  By  an  exclusive  atten. 
tion  to  one  class  of  phenomena,  by  an  exclusive  taste  for  one 
species  of  excellence,  the  human  intellect  was  stunted.  Oc- 
casional coincidences  Avere  turned  into  general  rules.  Pre. 
judices  Avere  confounded  AAuth  instincts.  On  man,  as  he  was 
found  in  a particular  state  of  society — on  government,  as  it 
had  existed  in  a particular  corner  of  the  world,  many  just 
observations  were  made  ; but  of  man  as  man,  or  government 
as  government,  little  Avas  known.  Philosophy  remained 
stationary.  Slight  changes,  sometimes  for  the  Avorse  and 
sometimes  for  the  better,  were  made  in  the  superstructure. 
But  nobody  thought  of  examining  the  foundations. 

The  vast  despotism  of  the  Ceesars,  gradually  effacing  all 
national  peculiarities,  and  assimilating  the  remotest  ]3rov- 
inces  of  the  empire  to  each  other,  augmented  the  evil.  At 
the  close  of  the  third  century  after  Christ,  tlie  prospects  of 
mankind  Avere  fearfully  dreary.  A system  of  etiquette,  as 
pompously  frivolous  as  that  of  the  Escurial,  had  been  es- 
tablished. A soA^ereign  almost  iuAdsible ; a croAvd  of  digni- 
taries minutely  distinguished  by  badges  and  titles ; rhetori- 
cians who  said  nothing  but  what  had  been  said  ten  thousand 
times  ; schools  in  which  nothing  was  taught  but  what  had 
been  knoAvn  for  ages : such  was  the  machinery  provided  for 
the  government  and  instruction  of  the  most  enlightened  part 
of  the  human  race.  That  great  community  was  then  in 


1 


298  ma^^aulay’s  miscellaneous  \vkitingf5. 

clanger  of  experiencing  a calamity  far  more  terrible  than 
any  of  the  quick,  inilammatory,  (lestn>ying  maladies,  to 
which  nations  are  liable, — a tottering,  drivelling,  })aralytic 
longevity,  the  immortality  of  the  Struldbriigs,  a Chinese 
civilization.  It  would  be  easy  to  indicate  many  points  ot 
resemblance  between  the  subjects  of  Diocletian  and  the 
people  of  that  Celestial  Empircj,  Avhere,  during  many  centu- 
rieS;  nothing  has  been  learned  or  unlearned  ; where  gov- 
ernment, Avhere  education,  where  the  whole  system  of  life, 
is  a ceremony ; where  knowledge  forgets  to  increase  and 
multiply,  and,  like  the  talent  buried  in  the  earth,  or  the 
pound  wrapped  up  in  the  napkin,  ex]^erience8  neither  waste 
nor  augmentation. 

The  torpor  was  broken  by  two  great  revolutions,  the  one 
moral,  the  other  political,  the  one  from  within,  the  other 
from  without.  The  victory  of  Christianity  over  Paganism, 
considered  with  relation  to  this  subject  only,  was  of  great 
importance.  It  overthrew  the  old  system  of  morals ; and 
Avith  it  much  of  the  old  system  of  metaphysics.  It  furnished 
the  orator  Avith  new  topics  of  declamation,  and  the  logician 
Avith  new  points  of  controversy.  Above  all,  it  introduced  a 
iiGAV  principle,  of  which  the  operation  was  constantly  felt  in 
GA^ery  part  of  society.  It  stirred  the  stagnant  mass  from  the 
inmost  depths.  It  excited  all  the  passions  of  a stormy  de- 
mocracy in  the  quiet  and  listless  population  of  an  overgrown 
empire.  The  fear  of  heresy  did  what  the  sense  of  oppres- 
sion could  not  do  ; it  changed  men,  accustomed  to  be  turned 
OA^er  like  sheep  from  tyrant  to  tyrant,  into  devoted  partisans 
and  obstinate  rebels.  The  tones  of  an  eloquence  which  had 
been  silent  for  ages  resounded  from  the  pulpit  of  Gregory.  A 
spirit  which  had  been  extinguished  on  the  plains  of  Philippi 
revived  in  Athanasius  and  Ambrose. 

Yet  even  this  remedy  was  not  sufficiently  violent  for  the 
disease.  It  did  not  prevent  the  empire  of  Constantinople 
from  relapsing,  after  a short  paroxysm  of  excitement,  into  a 
state  of  stupefaction,  to  Avhich  history  furnishes  scarcely  any 
parallel.  We  there  find  that  a polished  society,  a society  in 
which  a most  intricate  and  elaborate  system  of  jurisprudence 
was  established,  in  which  the  arts  of  luxury  Avere  well  un- 
derstood, in  Avhich  the  Avorks  of  the  great  ancient  Avritera 
Avere  preserved  and  studied,  existed  for  nearly  a thousand 
years  Avithout  making  one  great  discovery  in  science,  or 
producing  one  book  which  is  read  by  any  but  curious  inquir- 
ers, There  were  tumults,  too  and  controversies,  and  wars 


HISTORY* 


in  abundance  : and  these  things,  bad  as  they  are  in  theni- 
Belves,  liave  generally  been  favorable  to  the  progress  of  the 
intellect.  But  here  they  torniented  without  stimulating. 
The  waters  were  troubled  ; but  no  healing  influence  de- 
scended. The  agitations  resembled  the  grinnings  and  writh- 
ings  of  a galvanized  corpse,  not  the  struggles  of  an  athletic 
man. 

From  this  miserable  state  the  Western  Empire  was 
saved  by  the  fiercest  and  most  destroying  visitation  with 
which  God  has  ever  chastened  his  creatures — the  invasion 
of  the  Northern  nations.  Such  a cure  was  required  for 
such  a distemper.  The  fire  of  London,  it  has  been  observed, 
was  a blessing.  It  burned  down  the  city;  but  it  burned 
out  the  plague.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  tremendous 
devastation  of  the  Roman  dominions.  It  annihilated  the 
noisome  recesses  in  which  lurked  the  seeds  of  great  moral 
maladies ; it  cleared  an  atmosphere  fatal  to  the  health  and 
vigor  of  the  human  mind.  It  cost  Europe  a thousand  years 
of  barbarism  to  escape  the  fate  of  China. 

At  length  the  terrible  purification  was  accomplished ; 
and  the  second  civilization  of  mankind  commenced,  under 
circumstances  which  afforded  a strong  security  that  it  would 
never  retrograde  and  never  pause.  Europe  was  now  a 
gi*eat  federal  community.  Her  numerous  states  were  united 
by  the  easy  ties  of  international  law  and  a common  religion. 
Their  institutions,  their  languages,  their  manners,  their 
tastes  in  literature,  their  modes  of  education,  were  widely 
different.  Their  connection  was  close  enough  to  allow  of 
mutual  observation  and  improvement,  yet  not  so  close  as  to 
destroy  the  idioms  of  national  opinion  and  feeling. 

The  balance  of  moral  and  intellectual  influence  thus  es- 
tablished between  the  nations  of  Europe  is  far  more  impor- 
tant than  the  balance  of  political  power.  Indeed,  we  are 
inclined  to  think  that  the  latter  is  valuable  principally  be- 
cause it  tends  to  maintain  the  former.  The  civilized  world 
has  thus  been  preserved  from  an  uniformity  of  character 
fatal  to  all  improvement.  Every  part  of  it  has  been  illumi- 
nated with  light  reflected  from  every  other.  Competition 
has  produced  activity  where  monopoly  would  have  produced 
sluggishness.  The  number  of  experiments  in  moral  science 
which  the  speculator  has  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  has 
been  increased  beyond  all  calculation.  Society  and  human 
nature,  instead  of  being  seen  in  a single  point  of  view,  are 
presented  to  him  under  ten  thousand  different  aspects.  By 


300  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

observing  tlio  manners  of  surrounding  nations,  by  studying 
their  literature,  by  conij)aring  it  with  tliat  of  his  own  coun- 
try and  of  tlie  ancient  re])ublics,  he  is  enabled  to  correct 
those  errors  into  whicli  the  most  acute  men  must  fall  when 
they  reason  from  a single  species  to  a genus.  lie  learns  to 
distinguish  what  is  local  from  what  is  universal ; what  ia 
transitory  from  what  is  eternal ; to  discriminate  between 
exceptions  and  rules ; to  trace  the  operation  of  disturbing 
causes ; to  separate  those  general  principles  which  are  al- 
ways true  and  everywdiere  applicable  from  the  accidental 
circumstances  with  which,  in  every  community,  they  are 
blended,  and  with  which,  in  an  isolated  community,  they 
are  confounded  by  the  most  philosophical  mind. 

Hence  it  is  that,  in  generalization,  the  writers  of  modern 
times  have  far  surpassed  those  of  antiquity.  The  historiana 
of  our  own  country  are  unequalled  in  depth  and  precision 
of  reason  ; and,  even  in  the  works  of  our  mere  compilers, 
we  often  meet  with  speculations  beyond  the  reach  of  Thucy- 
• — dides  or  Tacitus. 

But  it  must,  at  the  same  time,  be  admitted  that  they 
have  characteristic  faults,  so  closely  connected  v>dth  their 
characteristic  merits,  and  of  such  magnitude,  that  it  may 
well  be  doubted  whether,  on  the  whole,  this  department  of 
literature  has  gained  or  lost  during  the  last  two-and-twenty 
centuries. 

The  best  historians  of  later  times  have  been  seduced 
from  truth,  not  by  their  imagination,  but  by  their  reason. 
They  far  excel  their  predecessors  in  the  art  of  deducing 
general  principles  from  facts.  But  unhappily  they  have 
fallen  into  the  error  of  distorting  facts  to  suit  general  prin- 
ciples. They  arrive  at  a theory  from  looking  at  some  of  the 
phenomena;  and  the  remaining  phenomena  they  strain  or 
curtail  to  suit  the  theory.  For  this  purpose  it  is  not  neces- 
sary that  they  should  assert  what  is  absolutely  false  ; for  all 
questions  in  morals  and  politics  are  questions  of  comparison 
and  degree.  Any  proposition  which  does  not  involve  a 
contradiction  in  terms  may  by  possibility  be  true ; and,  if 
all  the  circumstances  which  raise  a probability  in  its  favor 
be  stated  and  enforced,  and  those  which  lead  to  an  opposite 
conclusion  be  omitted  or  lightly  passed  over,  it  may  appear 
to  be  demonstrated.  In  every  human  character  and  trans- 
action there  is  a mixture  of  good  and  evil : a little  exagger- 
ation, a little  suppression,  a judicious  use  of  epithets,  a 
watchful  and  searching  skepticism  vdth  respect  to  the  evi 


HISTORY, 


SOI 


flence  on  one  si^e,  ft  convenient  credulity  with  res])ect  to 
every  re[)ort  or  tradition  on  the  other,  may  easily  make  a 
eaint  of  Laud,  or  a tyrant  of  Henry  the  Fourtli. 

This  species  of  misrepresentation  abounds  in  the  most 
valuable  works  of  modern  historians.  Herodotus  tells  his 
story  like  a slovenly  witness,  who,  heated  by  partialities  and 
prejudices,  unacquainted  with  the  established  rules  of  evi- 
dence, and  uninstructed  as  to  the  obligations  of  his  oath, 
confounds  what  he  imagines  with  what  he  has  seen  and 
hoard,  and  brings  out  facts,  reports,  conjectures,  and  fancies, 
in  one  mass.  Hume  is  an  accomplished  advocate.  With- 
out positively  asserting  much  more  than  he  can  prove,  he 
gives  prominence  to  all  the  circumstances  which  support  his 
case  ; he  glides  lightly  over  those  which  are  unfavorable  to 
it ; his  own  witnesses  are  applauded  and  encouraged ; the 
statements  which  seem  to  throw  discredit  on  them  are  con- 
troverted ; the  contradictions  into  which  they  fall  are  ex- 
plained away ; a clear  and  connected  abstract  of  their 
evidence  is  given.  Everything  that  is  offered  on  the  other 
side  is  scrutinized  with  the  utmost  severity ; every  suspi- 
cious circumstance  is  a ground  for  comment  and  invective ; 
what  cannot  be  denied  is  extenuated,  or  passed  by  without 
notice ; concessions  even  are  sometimes  made : but  this  in- 
sidious candor  only  increases  the  effect  of  the  vast  mass  of 
sophistry. 

We  have  mentioned  Hume  as  the  ablest  and  most  popu- 
lar writer  of  his  class ; but  the  charge  which  we  have 
brought  against  him  is  one  to  which  all  our  most  distin- 
guished historians  are  in  some  degree  obnoxious.  Gibbon, 
in  particular,  deserves  A^ery  severe  censure.  Of  all  the  nu- 
merous culprits,  however,  none  is  more  deeply  guilty  than 
Mr.  Mitford.  We  willingly  acknowledge  the  obligations 
v/hich  are  due  to  his  talents  and  industry.  The  modern 
historians  of  Greece  had  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  as  if 
the  world  had  learned  nothing  new  during  the  last  sixteen 
hundred  years.  Instead  of  illustrating  the  events  which 
they  narrated  by  the  philosophy  of  a more  enlightened  age, 
they  judged  of  antiquity  by  itself  alone.  They  seemed  to 
think  that  notions,  long  driven  from  every  other  cornr3r  of 
literature,  had  a prescriptive  right  to  occupy  this  last  fast- 
ness. They  considered  all  the  ancient  historians  as  equally 
authentic.  They  scarcely  made  any  distinction  between 
him  who  related  eA^ents  at  which  he  had  himself  been  pres« 
ent  and  him  who  five  hundred  years  after  composed  a phi- 


302 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


losopliic  romance  for  a society  whicli  liacl  in  tlie  interval 
undergone  a coin])lete  cliangc.  It  was  all  Greek,  and  all 
true  ! The  centuries  which  separated  Plutarcli  from  '^riiucy- 
dides  seemed  as  iiotliing  to  men  who  lived  in  an  age  so  re- 
mote. The  distance  of  time  jiroduced  an  error  similar  to 
tliat  which  is  sometimes  })roduced  by  distance  of  place. 
There  are  many  good  ladies  who  think  that  all  the  people 
in  India  live  together,  and  who  charge  a friend  setting  out 
for  Calcutta  with  kind  messages  to  Bombay.  To  Rollin 
and  Barthelenii,  in  the  sam.e  manner,  all  the  classics  were 
contemporaries. 

Mr.  Mitford  certainly  introduced  great  improvements  ; 
lie  showed  us  that  men  w^ho  wrote  in  Greek  and  Latin 
sometimes  told  lies ; he  showed  us  that  ancient  history 
might  be  related  in  such  a manner  as  to  fuinisb  not  only 
allusions  to  school  boys,  but  important  lesoons  to  statesmen. 
From  that  love  of  theatrical  effect  and  nigk-flowm  sentiment 
which  had  poisoned  almost  every  other  work  on  the  same 
subject  his  book  is  perfectly  free.  Eat  his  passion  for  a the- 
ory as  false,  and  far  more  ungenerous,  led  him  substantially  to 
violate  truth  in  every  page.  Statements  unfavorable  to  de- 
mocracy are  made  with  unhesitatirg  confidence,  and  with 
the  utmost  bitterness  of  language.  Every  charge  brought 
against  a monarch  or  an  aristocracy  is  sifted  with  the  utmost 
care.  If  it  cannot  be  denied,  some  palliating  supposition  is 
suggested;  or  we  are  at  least  reminded  that  some  circum- 
stances now  unknown  may  have  justified  what  at  present 
appears  unjustifiable.  Two  events  are  reported  by  the  same 
author  in  the  same  sentence  ; their  truth  rests  on  the  same 
testimony ; but  the  one  supports  the  darling  hypothesis, 
and  the  other  seems  inconsistent  with  it.  The  one  is  taken 
and  the  other  is  left. 

The  practice  of  distorting  narrative  into  a conformity 
v/ith  theory  is  a vice  not  so  unfavorable  as  at  first  sight  it 
Enay  appear  to  the  interests  of  political  science.  We  have 
compared  the  writers  w^ho  indulge  in  it  to  advocates ; and 
w’e  may  add,  that  their  conflicting  fallacies,  like  those  of  ad- 
vocates, correct  each  other.  It  has  always  been  held,  in  the 
most  enlightened  nations,  that  a tribunal  will  decide  a judicial 
question  most  fairly  when  it  has  heard  two  able  men  argue,  as 
unfairly  as  possible,  on  the  two  opposite  sides  of  it ; and  w^e 
are  inclined  to  think  that  this  opinion  is  just.  Sometimes, 
it  is  true,  superior  eloquence  and  dexterity  will  make  the 
worse  appear  the  better  reason ; but  it  is  at  least  certain 


niSTORY. 


303 


that  the  jinlge  will  be  compelled  to  contemplate  the  case 
under  two  different  aspects.  It  is  certain  that  no  important 
consideration  will  altogether  escaj^e  notice. 

This  is  at  present  the  state  of  history.  The  poet  laureate 
appears  for  the  Church  of  England,  Lingard  for  the  Cliurch 
of  Rome.  Brodie  has  moved  to  set  aside  the  verdicts  ob- 
tained by  Hume ; and  the  cause  in  which  Mitford  succeeded 
IS,  we  understand,  about  to  be  reheard.  In  the  midst  of 
tliese  disputes,  however,  history  proper,  if  we  may  use  tho 
term,  is  disappearing.  The  high,  grave,  impartial  summing 
up  of  Thucydides  is  nowhere  to  be  found. 

While  our  historians  are  practising  all  the  arts  of  contro- 
versy, they  miserably  neglect  the  art  of  narration,  the  art  of 
interesting  the  affections  and  presenting  pictures  to  the  im- 
agination. That  a writer  may  produce  these  effects  with- 
out violating  truth  is  sufficiently  proved  by  many  excellent 
biographical  works.  The  immense  popularity  which  well- 
written  books  of  this  kind  have  acquired  deserves  the  seri- 
ous consideration  of  historians.  Voltaire’s  Charles  the 
Twelfth,  Marmontel’s  Memoirs,  Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson, 
Southey’s  account  of  Kelson,  are  perused  with  delight  by 
the  most  frivolous  and  indolent.  Whenever  any  tolerable 
book  of  the  same  description  makes  it  appearance,  the  cir- 
culating libraries  are  mobbed;  the  hook  societies  are  in 
commotion ; the  new  novel  lies  uncut ; the  magazines  and 
newspapers  fill  their  columns  with  extracts.  In  the  mean 
time  histories  of  great  empires,  written  by  men  of  eminent 
ability,  lie  unread  on  the  shelves  of  ostentatious  libraries. 

The  writers  of  history  seem  to  entertain  an  aristocratical 
contempt  for  the  writers  of  memoirs.  They  think  it  beneath 
the  dignity  of  men  who  describe  the  revolutions  of  nations 
to  dwell  on  the  details  which  constitute  the  charm  of 
biography.  They  have  imposed  on  themselves  a code  of 
conventional  decencies  as  absurd  as  that  which  has  been  the 
bane  of  the  French  drama.  The  most  characteristic  and 
interesting  circumstances  are  omitted  or  softened  down, 
because,  as  we  are  told,  they  are  too  trivial  for  the  majesty 
of  history.  Tlie  majesty  of  history  seems  to  resemble  the 
majesty  of  the  poor  King  of  Spain,  who  died  a martyr  tc 
ceremony  because  tlie  proper  dignitaries  were  not  at  hand 
to  render  liim  assistance. 

That  history  would  be  more  amusing  if  this  etiquette 
were  relaxed  will,  we  suppose,  be  acknowledged.  But 
would  it  b©  less  dignified  or  less  useful?  What  do  we 


r>04  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

mean  when  we  say  tliat  one  j)ast  event  is  important  and 
another  insignificant?  No  past  event  lias  any  intrinsic  im- 
portance. The  knowledge  of  it  is  valuable  only  as  it  leads 
us  to  form  just  calculations  with  resjiect  to  the  future.  A 
history  which  does  not  serve  this  purpose,  though  it  may  be 
filled  with  battles,  treaties,  and  commotions,  is  as  useless  as 
the  series  of  turnpike  tickets  collected  by  Sir  Mattliew  Mite. 

Let  us  suppose  that  Lord  Clarendon,  instead  of  filling 
hundreds  of  folio  pages  with  copies  of  state  papers,  in  which 
the  same  assertions  and  contradictions  are  repeated  till  the 
reader  is  overpowered  with  weariness,  had  condescended  to 
be  the  Boswell  of  the  Long  Parliament.  Let  us  suppose 
that  he  had  exhibited  to  us  the  wise  and  lofty  self-govern- 
ment of  Hampden,  leading  while  he  seemed  to  follow,  and 
propounding  unanswerable  arguments  in  the  strongest 
forms  with  the  modest  air  of  an  inquirer  anxious  for 
information : the  delusions  which  misled  the  noble  spirit  of 
Vane;  the  course  fanaticism  which  concealed  the  yet  loftier 
genius  of  Cromwell,  destined  to  control  a mutinous  army 
and  a factious  people,  to  abase  the  flag  of  Holland,  to  arrest 
the  victorious  arms  of  Sweden,  and  to  hold  the  balance  firm 
between  the  rival  monarchies  of  France  and  Spain.  Let 
us  suppose  that  he  had  made  his  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads 
talk  in  their  own  style  ; that  he  had  reported  some  of  the 
ribaldry  of  Rupert’s  pages,  and  some  of  the  cant  of  Harrison 
and  Fleetwood.  Would  not  his  work  in  that  case  have 
been  more  interesting  ? W ould  it  not  have  been  more  ac- 
curate ? 

A history  in  which  every  particular  incident  may  be  true 
may  on  the  w^hole  be  false.  The  circumstances  which  have 
most  influence  on  the  happiness  of  mankind,  the  changes  of 
manners  and  morals,  the  transition  of  communities  from 
poverty  to  wealth,  from  knowledge  to  ignorance,  from  fero- 
city to  humanity — these  are,  for  the  most  part,  noiseless 
revolutions.  Their  progress  is  rarely  indicated  by  what 
historians  are  pleased  to  call  important  events.  They  are 
not  achieved  by  armies,  or  enacted  by  senates.  They  are 
sanctioned  by  no  treaties  and  recorded  in  no  archives.  They 
are  carried  on  in  every  school,  in  every  church,  behind  ten 
thousand  counters,  at  ten  thousand  firesides.  The  upper 
current  of  society  presents  no  certain  criterion  by  which  we 
can  judge  of  the  direction  in  which  the  under  current  flows. 
We  read  of  defeats  and  victories.  But  we  know  that 
nations  may  be  miserable  amidst  victories  and  prosperous 


niSTORY, 


305 


amidst  defeats.  We  read  of  the  fall  of  wise  ministers  and  of 
the  rise  of  profligate  favorites.  But  we  must  remember  how 
small  a proportion  the  good  or  evil  effected  by  a single  states- 
man can  bear  to  the  good  or  evil  of  a great  social  system. 

Bishop  Watson  compares  a geologist  to  a gnat  mounted 
on  an  elephant,  and  laying  down  theories  as  to  the  whole  in- 
ternal structure  of  the  vast  animal,  from  the  phenomena  of 
the  hide.  The  comparison  is  unjust  to  the  geologists  ; but 
It  is  very  applicable  to  those  historians  who  write  as  if  the 
body  politic  were  homogeneous,  who  look  only  on  the  sur- 
face of  affairs,  and  never  think  of  the  mighty  and  various 
organization  which  lies  deep  below. 

In  the  works  of  such  writers  as  these,  England,  at  the 
close  of  the  Seven  Years’  War,  is  in  the  highest  state  of 
prosperity  : at  the  close  of  the  American  war  she  is  in  a mis- 
erable and  degraded  condition  ; as  if  the  people  were  not  on 
the  whole  as  rich,  as  well  governed,  and  as  well  educated  at 
the  latter  period  as  at  the  former.  We  have  read  books 
called  Histories  of  England,  under  the  reign  of  George  the 
Second,  in  w^hich  the  rise  of  Methodism  is  not  even  men- 
tioned. A hundred  years  hence  this  breed  of  authors  wiTl, 
we  hope,  be  extinct.  If  it  should  still  exist,  the  late  ministe- 
rial interregnum  will  be  described  in  terms  which  will  seem 
to  imply  that  all  government  was  at  an  end  ; that  the  social 
contract  was  annulled  ; and  that  the  hand  of  every  man  was 
against  his  neighbor,  until  the  wisdom  and  virtue  of  the 
new  cabinet  educed  order  out  of  the  chaos  of  anarchy.  We 
are  quite  certain  that  misconceptions  as  gross  prevailed  at 
this  moment  respecting  many  important  parts  of  our  annals. 

The  effect  of  historical  reading  is  analogous,  in  many 
respects,  to  that  produced  by  foreign  travel.  The  student, 
like  the  tourist,  is  transported  into  a new  state  of  society. 
He  sees  new  fashions.  He  hears  new  modes  of  expression. 
His  mind  is  enlarged  by  contemplating  the  wide  diversities 
of  laws,  of  morals,  and  of  manners.  But  men  may  travel 
far,  and  return  with  minds  as  contracted  as  if  they  had  never 
stirred  from  their  own  market-town.  In  the  same  manner 
men  may  know  the  dates  of  many  battles  and  the  genealo- 
gies of  many  royal  houses,  and  yet  be  no  wiser.  Most 
people  look  at  past  times  as  princes  look  at  foreign  countries. 
More  than  one  illustrious  stranger  has  landed  on  our  island 
amidst  the  shouts  of  a mob,  has  dined  with  the  king,  has 
hunted  with  the  master  of  the  stag-hounds,  has  seen  the  guards 
reviewed,  and  a knight  of  the  parter  installed,  has  cantered 
VqIi*  I, —20 


S06  macaulay’b  miscellaneous  writings. 

along  Regent  street,  lias  visited  St.  Paul’s,  and  noted  down 
its  dimensions ; and  lias  then  dejiarted,  thinking  that  he  lias 
seen  England.  He  has,  in  fact,  seen  a few  jmblic  buildings, 
public  men,  and  public  ceremonies.  Put  of  the  vast  and 
complex  system  of  society,  ot’  the  line  shades  of  national  char- 
acter, of  the  practical  operation  of  government  and  laws, 
he  knows  nothing,  lie  who  would  understand  these  things 
rightly  must  not  confine  his  observations  to  palaces  and 
solemn  days.  He  must  see  ordinary  men  as  they  appear  in 
their  ordinary  business  and  in  their  ordinary  pleasures.  lie 
must  mingle  in  the  crowds  of  the  exchange  and  the  coffee- 
house. lie  must  obtain  admittance  to  tlie  convivial  table 
and  the  domestic  hearth.  He  must  bear  with  vulgar  ex- 
pressions, He  must  not  shrink  from  exploring  even  the  re- 
treats of  misery.  He  who  Avishes  to  understand  the  condi- 
tion of  mankind  in  former  ages  must  proceed  on  the  same 
principle.  If  he  attends  only  to  ])ublic  transactions,  to  wars, 
congresses,  and  debates,  his  studies  will  be  as  unprofitable 
as  the  travels  of  those  imperial,  royal,  and  serene  sovereigns 
who  form  their  judgment  of  our  island  from  liaving  gone  in 
state  to  a few  fine  sights,  and  from  having  held  formal  con- 
ferences with  a few  great  officers. 

The  perfect  historian  is  he  in  Avhose  work  the  character 
and  spirit  of  an  age  is  exhibited  in  miniature.  He  relates 
no  fact,  he  attributes  no  expression  to  his  characters,  which 
is  not  authenticated  by  sufficient  testimony.  But,  by  judi- 
cious selection,  rejection,  and  arrangement,  he  gives  to  truth 
those  attractions  which  have  been  usur|3ed  by  fiction.  In 
his  narrative  a due  subordination  is  observed : some  trans- 
actions are  prominent ; others  retire.  But  the  scale  on 
which  he  represents  them  is  increased  or  diminished,  not  ac- 
cording to  the  dignity  of  the  persons  concerned  in  them,  but 
according  to  the  degree  in  Avhich  they  elucidate  the  con- 
dition of  society  and  the  nature  of  man.  He  shows  us  the 
court,  the  camp,  and  the  senate.  But  he  shows  us  also  the 
nation.  He  considers  no  anecdote,  no  peculiarity  of  manner, 
no  familiar  saying,  as  too  insignificant  for  his  notice  which  is 
not  too  insignificant  to  illustrate  the  operation  of  laws,  of 
leligion,  and  of  education,  and  to  mark  the  progress  of  the 
numan  mind.  Men  Avill  not  merely  be  described,  but  will 
be  made  intimately  known  to  us.  The  changes  of  manners 
will  be  indicated,  not  merely  by  a few  general  phrases  or  a 
few  extracts  from  statistical  documents,  but  by  appropriate 
images  presented  in  every  line* 


HISTORY. 


307 


If  a man  siicli  as  we  are  sui)posing,  slionld  write  tlie 
history  of  Eiiglaiul,  lie  would  assuredly  not  omit  the  battles, 
the  sieges,  the  negotiations,  the  seditions,  the  ministerial 
changes.  But  with  these  he  would  intersperse  the  details 
which  are  the  charm  of  historical  romances.  At  Lincoln 
Cathedral  there  is  a beautiful  painted  window,  which  was 
made  by  an  apprentice  out  of  the  pieces  of  glass  which  had 
been  rejected  by  his  master.  It  is  so  far  superior  to  every 
other  in  the  church,  that,  according  to  the  tradition,  the  van- 
quished artist  killed  himself  from  mortification.  Sir  Waite? 
Scott,  in  the  same  manner,  has  used  those  fragments  of 
truth  which  historians  have  scornfully  thrown  behind  them 
in  a manner  which  may  well  excite  their  envy.  lie  has 
constructed  out  of  their  gleanings  works  which,  even  con- 
sidered as  histories,  are  scarcely  less  valuable  than  theirs. 
But  a truly  great  historian  would  reclaim  those  materials 
which  the  novelist  has  appropriated.  The  history  of  the 
government,  and  the  history  of  the  people,  would  be  exhib- 
ited in  that  mode  in  wdiich  alone  they  can  be  exhibited  justly, 
in  inseparable  conjunction  and  intermixture.  We  should 
not  then  have  to  look  for  the  wars  and  votes  of  the  Puritans 
m Clarendon,  and  for  their  phraseology  in  Old  Mortality  ; 
for  one  half  of  King  James  in  Hume,  and  for  the  other  half 
in  the  Fortunes  of  Nigel. 

Tlie  early  part  of  our  imaginary  history  would  be  rich 
wdth  coloring  from  romance,  ballad,  and  chronicle.  We 
should  find  ourselves  in  the  company  of  kniglits  such  as 
those  of  Froissart,  and  of  pilgrims  such  as  those  who  rode 
with  Chaucer  from  the  Tabard.  Society  would  bo  showm 
from  the  highest  to  tlie  lowest, — from  the  royal  cloth  of 
state  to  the  den  of  the  outlaw ; from  the  throne  of  the 
legate,  to  the  chimney-corner  where  tlie  begging  friar  re- 
galed himself.  Palmers,  minstrels,  crusaders, — the  stately 
monastery,  with  the  good  cheer  in  its  refectory  and  the 
high-mass  in  its  chapel, — the  manor-house,  Avith  its  hunting 
and  liawking, — the  tournament,  with  the  heralds  and  ladies, 
the  trumpets  and  the  cloth  of  gold, — would  give  truth  and 
life  to  the  representation.  We  should  perceive,  in  a thou- 
sand slight  touches,  the  importance  of  the  privileged 
burgher,  and  the  fierce  and  haughty  spirit  which  swelled 
under  the  collar  of  the*  degi’aded  villain.  The  revival  of 
letters  would  not  merely  be  described  in  a few  magnificent 
periods.  We  should  discern,  in  innumerable  particulars, 
the  fermentation  of  mind,  the  eager  ap])etite  for  knowledge; 


308 


MACAVLAV’s  MISCilLLAXKOL'S  AVlilTlXGS* 


whicli  distinguished  t\ie  sixtecntli  from  tlie  fifteen tli  cen- 
tury. In  tlie  Reformation  we  sliould  see,  not  merely  a 
scliism  Avliich  clianged  tlie  ecclesiastical  constitution  of  Eng- 
land and  the  mutual  relations  of  the  European  ])owers,  but 
a moral  war  which  raged  in  every  family,  which  set  the 
father  against  the  son,  and  the  son  against  the  father,  the 
mother  against  the  daughter,  and  the  daughter  against  the 
mother.  Henry  would  be  painted  with  the  skill  of  Tacitus. 
We  should  have  the  change  of  his  character  from  his  pro- 
fuse and  joyous  youth  to  his  savage  and  imperious  old  age. 
We  should  perceive  the  gradual  progress  of  selfish  and 
tyrannical  passions  in  a mind  not  naturally  insensible  or  un- 
generous ; and  to  the  last  we  should  detect  some  remains 
of  that  open  and  noble  temper  which  endeared  him  to  a j 
people  whom  he  oppressed,  struggling  with  the  hardness  of  ] 
despotism  and  the  irritability  of  disease.  We  should  see  i 
Elizabeth  in  all  her  weakness  and  in  all  her  strength,  sur-  ) 
rounded  by  the  handsome  favorites  whom  she  never  trusted, 
and  the  wise  old  statesmen  whom  she  never  dismissed,  uni-  - 
ting  in  herself  the  most  contradictory  qualities  of  both  her  : 
parents, — the  coquetry,  the  caprice,  the  petty  malice  of  i 
Anne, — the  haughty  and  resolute  spirit  of  Henry.  We 
have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  a great  artist  might  pro-  i 
duce  a portrait  of  this  remarkable  woman  at  least  as  strik- 
ing as  that  in  the  novel  of  Kenilworth,  without  employing 
a single  trait  not  authenticated  by  ample  testimony.  In  j 
the  mean  time,  we  should  see  arts  cultivated,  wealth  ao  ! 
cumulated,  the  conveniences  of  life  improved.  We  should  | 
see  the  keeps,  where  nobles,  insecure  themselves,  spread  in-  ; 
security  around  them,  gradually  giving  place  to  the  halls  of 
peaceful  opulence,  to  the  oriels  of  Longleat,  and  the  stately 
pinnacles  of  Burleigh.  We  should  see  towns  extended, 
deserts  cultivated,  the  hamlets  of  fishermen  turned  into 
wealthy  havens,  the  meal  of  the  peasant  improved,  and  his  .1 
but  more  commodiously  furnished.  We  should' see  those 
ap inions  and  feelings  which  produced  the  great  struggle  ^ 
against  the  house  of  Stuart  slowly  growing  up  in  the  bosom 
of  private  families,  before  they  manifested  themselves  in  , 
parliamentary  debates.  Then  would  come  the  civil  war.  ' 
Those  skirmishes  on  which  Clarendon  dwells  so  minutely  j 
would  be  told,  as  Thucydides  would  have  told  them,  with  i 
perspicuous  conciseness,  d'hey  are  merely  connecting  links%  ^ 
But  the  great  characteristics  of  the  age,  the  loyal  enthu-  ; 
»iasm  of  the  brave  Englisli  gentry,  the  tierce  licentiousness  j 


ItiStORTf. 


309 


of  the  swearing,  dicing,  drunken  reprobates,  whose  excesses 
disgrace  the  royal  cause, — the  austerity  of  the  Presbyterian 
Sabbaths  in  tlie  city,  the  extravagance  of  the  independent 
preachers  in  tlie  camp,  the  precise  garb,  the  severe  counte- 
nance, the  petty  scruples,  the  affected  accent,  the  absurd 
names  and  phrases  which  marked  the  Puritans, — the  valor, 
the  policy,  the  public  spirit,  which  lurked  beneath  these  un- 
graceful disguises, — the  dreams  of  the  raving  Fifth-mon- 
archy-man,  the  dreams,  scarcely  less  wild,  of  the  philosophic 
republican, — all  these  would  enter  into  the  representation, 
and  render  it  at  once  more  exact  and  more  striking. 

The  instruction  derived  from  history  thus  written  would 
be  of  a vivid  and  practical  character.  It  would  be  received 
by  the  imagination  as  well  as  by  the  reason.  It  would  be 
not  merely  traced  on  the  mind,  but  branded  into  it.  Many 
truths,  too,  would  be  learned,  which  can  be  learned  in  no 
other  manner.  As  the  history  of  States  is  generally  written, 
the  greatest  and  most  momentous  revolutions  seem  to  come 
upon  them  like  supernatural  inflictions,  without  warning 
or  cause.  But  the  fact  is,  that  such  revolutions  are  almost 
always  the  consequences  of  moral  changes,  which  have 
gradually  passed  on  the  mass  of  the  community,  and  which 
ordinarily  proceed  far  before  their  progress  is  indicated  by 
any  public  measure.  An  intimate  knowledge  of  the  domes- 
tic history  of  nations  is  therefore  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
prognosis  of  political  events.  A narrative,  defective  in  this 
respect,  is  as  useless  as  a medical  treatise  which  should  pass 
by  all  the  symptoms  attendant  on  the  early  stage  of  a dis- 
ease and  mention  only  what  occurs  when  the  patient  is  be- 
yond the  reach  of  remedies. 

A historian,  such  as  we  have  been  attempting  to  describe, 
would  indeed  be  an  intellectual  prodigy.  In  his  mind, 
powers  scarcely  compatible  with  each  other  must  be  tem- 
pered into  an  exquisite  harmony.  We  shall  sooner  see  an- 
other Shakspeare  or  another  Homer.  The  highest  excel* 
lence  to  which  any  single  faculty  can  be  brought  would  ba 
less  surprising  than  such  a happy  and  delicate  combination 
of  qualities.  Yet  the  contemplation  of  imaginary  models  is 
not  an  unpleasant  or  useless  employment  of  the  mind.  It 
cannot  indeed  produce  perfection  ; but  It  produces  improve- 
ment, and  nourishes  that  generous  and  liberal  fastidiousness 
which  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  strongest  sensibility  to 
merit,  and  which,  while  it  exalts  our  conceptions  of,  the 
ar  does  ^ot  render  us  uniust  to  the  artist. 


610 


Macaulay’s  miscellankouh  waitings. 


HALLAM* 

yEdinhurgh  Review ^ September ^ 

History,  at  least  in  its  state  of  ideal  perfection,  is  a 
•.ompound  of  poetry  and  philosophy.  It  impresses  general 
cruths  on  the  mind  by  a vivid  representation  of  particular 
characters  and  incidents.  But,  in  fact,  the  two  hostile  ele- 
ments of  which  it  consists  have  never  been  known  to  form 
a perfect  amalgamation  ; and  at  length,  in  our  own  time, 
they  have  been  completely  and  professedly  separated.  Good 
histories,  in  the  proper  sense  of  tlie  word,  Ave  have  not. 
But  we  have  good  historical  romances,  and  good  historical 
essays.  The  imagination  and  the  reason,  if  we  may  use  a 
legal  metaphor,  have  made  partition  of  a province  of  liter- 
ature of  which  they  were  formerly  seized  per  my  etper  tout  ^ 
and  now  they  hold  their  respective  portions  in  severalty,  in- 
stead of  holding  the  whole  in  common. 

To  make  the  past  present,  to  bring  the  distant  near^  to 
place  us  in  the  society  of  a great  man  on  an  eminence 
which  overlooks  the  field  of  a mighty  battle,  to  invest  with 
the  reality  of  human  flesh  and  blood  beings  whom  we  are 
too  much  inclined  to  consider  as  personified  qualities  in  an 
allegory,  to  call  up  our  ancestors  before  us  with  all  their 
peculiarities  of  language,  manners,  and  garb,  to  show  us 
over  their  houses,  to  seat  us  at  their  tables,  to  rummage 
their  old-fashioned  wardrobes,  to  explain  the  uses  of  their 
ponderous  furniture,  these  parts  of  the  duty  which  properly 
belongs  to  the  historian  have  been  appropriated  by  the  his- 
torical novelist.  On  the  other  hand,  to  extract  the  philos- 
ophy of  history,  to  direct  our  judgment  of  events  and  men^ 
to  trace  the  connection  of  causes  and  effects,  and  to  draw 
from  the  occurrences  of  former  times  general  lessons  of 
moral  and  political  wisdom,  has  become  the  business  of  a 
distinct  class  of  writers. 

Of  the  two  kinds  of  composition  into  Avhich  history  has 
been  thus  divided,  the  one  may  be  compared  to  a map,  the 
other  to  a painted  landscaj^e.  The  picture,  though  it  places 

* The  Constitutional  History  of  England,  from  the  Accession  of  Henry  Vll 
to  the  Death  of  George  11.  By  Henry  Hallam.  In  2 toIs.  1827. 


HALL AM. 


Cil 

the  country  before  us,  does  not  enable  us  to  ascertain  with 
accuracy  the  dimensions,  the  distances,  and  the  angles.  The 
map  is  not  a work  of  imitative  art.  It  presents  no  scene  to 
tlie  imagination ; but  it  gives  us  exact  information  as  to  the 
bearings  of  the  various  points,  and  is  a more  useful  compan- 
ion to  the  traveller  or  the  general  than  the  painted  land- 
scape could  be,  though  it  were  the  grandest  that  ever  Rosa 
peopled  with  outlaws,  or  the  sweetest  over  which  Claude 
ever  poured  the  mellow  effulgence  of  a setting  sun. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  practice  of  separating  the  two 
ingredients  of  which  history  is  composed  has  become  prev- 
alent on  the  Continent  as  well  as  in  this  country.  Italy 
has  already  produced  a historical  novel,  of  high  merit  and 
of  still  higher  promise.  In  France,  the  practice  has  been 
carried  to  a length  somewhat  whimsical.  M.  Sisinondi 
publishes  a grave  and  stately  history  of  the  Merovingian 
Kings,  very  valuable,  and  a little  tedious.  He  then  sends 
forth  as  a companion  to  it  a novel,  in  which  he  attempts  to 
give  a lively  representation  of  characters  and  manners. 
This  course,  as  it  seems  to  us,  has  all  the  disadvantages  of 
a division  of  labor,  and  none  of  its  advantages.  We  under- 
stand the  Expediency  of  keeping  the  functions  of  cook  and 
coachman  distinct.  The  dinner  will  be  better  dressed,  and 
the  horses  better  managed.  But  where  the  two  situations 
are  united,  as  in  the  Maitre  Jacques  of  Moliere,  we  do 
not  see  that  the  matter  is  much  mended  by  the  solemn  form 
with  which  the  pluralist  passes  from  one  of  his  employments 
to  the  other. 

We  manage  these  things  better  in  England.  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  gives  us  a novel ; Mr.  Hallam  a critical  and  argu- 
mentative history.  Both  are  occupied  with  ihe  same  mat- 
ter. But  the  former  looks  at  it  with  the  eye  of  a sculptor. 
Ilis  intention  is  to  give  an  express  and  lively  image  of  its 
external  form.  The  latter  is  an  anatomist.  His  task  is  to 
dissect  the  subject  to  its  inmost  recesses,  and  to  lay  bare  be- 
fore us  all  the  springs  of  motion  and  all  the  causes  of  decay. 

Mr.  Hallam  is,  on  the  whole,  far  better  qualified  than 
any  other  writer  of  our  time  for  the  ofiice  which  he  has  un- 
dertaken. He  has  great  industry  and  great  acuteness.  His 
knowledge  is  extensive,  various,  and  profound.  His  mind 
is  equally  distinguished  by  the  amplitude  of  its  grasp,  and 
by  the  delicacy  of  its  tact.  His  speculations  have  none  of 
that  vagueness  which  is  the  common  fault  of  political  phi- 
iosoptyi  On  the  cpntrary,  they  are  strikingly  practical, 


812 


macauiay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


and  teach  us  not  only  tlie  general  rule,  hut  tlie  mode  of  ay>- 
plying  it  to  solve  particular  cases.  In  this  res]>ect  they 
often  remind  us  of  the  Discourses  of  Machiavelli. 

The  style  is  sometimes  open  to  the  charge  of  harshness. 

We  have  also  here  and  there  remarked  a little  of  that  un- 
pleasant trick,  which  Gibbon  brought  into  fashion,  tlie  trick,  ' 

we  mean,  of  telling  a story  by  implication  and  allusion.  \ 

Mr.  Hallam,  however,  has  an  excuse  which  Gibbon  had  not.  J 

Ilis  work  is  designed  for  readers  who  are  already  acquainted  | 

with  the  ordinary  books  on  English  history,  and  who  car  | 

therefore  unriddle  these  litttle  enigmas  without  difficulty 
The  manner  of  the  book  is,  on  the  whole,  not  unworthy  oi 
the  matter.  The  language,  even  where  most  faulty,  is  ^ 
weighty  and  massive,  and  indicates  strong  sense  in  every 
line.  It  often  rises  to  an  eloquence,  not  florid  or  impas- 
sioned, but  high,  grave,  and  sober;  such  as  W’ould  become  ; 
a State  paper,  or  a judgment  delivered  by  a great  magistrate, 
a Somers  or  a D’Aguesseau. 

n this  respect  the  character  of  Mr.  Hallam’s  mind  cor- 
responds strikingly  with  that  of  his  style.  His  work  is  emi- 
nently judicial.  Its  whole  spirit  is  tliat  of  the  bench,  not 
that  of  the  bar.  He  sums  up  Avith  a calm,  steady  impartial- 
ity, turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  glossing 
over  nothing,  exaggerating  nothing,  while  the  advocates  on 
both  sides  are  alternately  biting  their  lips  to  hear  their  con- 
flicting misstatements  and  sophisms  exposed.  On  a general 
survey,  we  do  not  scruple  to  pronounce  the  Constitutional 
History  the  most  impartial  book  that  we  ever  read.  We 
think  it  the  more  incumbent  on  us  to  bear  this  testimony 
strongly  at  first  setting  out,  because,  in  the  course, of  our 
remarks,  we  shall  think  it  right  to  dwell  principally  on  those 
parts  of  it  from  which  we  dissent. 

There  is  one  peculiarity  about  Mr.  Hallam  which,  while 
it  adds  to  the  value  of  his  writings,  will,  we  fear,  take  away 
something  from  their  popularity.  He  is  less  of  a worshipper 
than  any  historian  whom  we  can  call  to  mind.  Every  political 
sect  has  its  esoteric  and  its  exoteric  school,  its  abstract  doc- 
trines for  the  initiated,  its  visible  symbols,  its  imposing 
forms,  its  mythological  fables  for  the  vulgar.  It  assists  the  i 
devotion  of  those  who  are  unable  to  raise  themselves  to  the 
contemplation  of  pure  truth  by  all  the  deAuces  of  Pagan  or  ■ 
Papal  superstition.  It  has  its  altars  and  its  deified  heroes,  ■ 
its  relics  and  pilgrimages,  its  canonized  martyrs  and  con-  ; 
feseors,  its  festivals  and  its  legendary  miracles.  Our  pious  ■ 


HALLAM. 


SIS 


ancestors,  we  are  told,  deserted  the  High  Altar  of  Canter- 
bury, to  lay  all  their  obligations  on  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas. 
In  the  same  manner  the  great  and  comfortable  doctrines  of 
the  Tory  creed,  those  })articularly  which  relate  to  restrictions 
on  worship  and  on  trade,  are  adored  by  squires  and  rectors 
in  Pitt  Clubs,  under  the  name  of  a minister  who  was  as  bad 
a representative  of  the  system  which  has  been  christened 
after  him  as  Becket  of  the  spirit  of  the  Gospel.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  cause  for  which  Hampden  bled  on  the  field 
and  Sydney  on  the  scaffold  is  enthusiastically  toasted  by 
many  an  honest  radical  who  would  be  puzzled  to  explain 
the  difference  between  Ship-money  and  the  Habeas  Corpus 
Act.  It  may  be  added  that,  as  in  religion,  so  in  politics, 
few  even  of  those  who  are  enlightened  enough  to  comprehend 
the  meaning  latent  under  the  emblems  of  their  faith  can 
resist  the  contagion  of  the  popular  superstition.  Often, 
when  they  flatter  themselves  that  they  are  merely  feigning 
a compliance  with  the  prejudices  of  the  vulgar,  they  are 
themselves  under  the  influence  of  those  very  prejudices. 
It  probably  was  not  altogether  on  grounds  of  expediency  that 
Socrates  taught  his  followers  to  honor  the  gods  whom  the 
State  honored,  and  bequeathed  a cock  to  Esculapius  with 
his  dying  breath.  So  there  is  often  a portion  of  willing 
credulity  and  enthusiasm  in  the  veneration  which  the  most 
discerning  men  pay  to  their  political  idols.  From  the  very 
nature  of  man  it  must  be  so.  The  faculty  by  which  we  in- 
separably associate  ideas  which  have  often  been  presented 
to  us  in  conjunction  is  not  under  the  absolute  control  of  the 
will.  It  may  be  quickened  into  morbid  activity.  It  may 
be  reasoned  into  sluggishness.  But  in  a certain  degree  it 
will  always  exist.  The  almost  absolute  mastery  which  Mr. 
Hallam  has  obtained  over  feelings  of  this  class  is  perfectly 
astonishing  to  us,  and  will,  we  believe,  be  not  only  astonishing 
but  offensive  to  many  of  his  readers.  It  must  particularly 
disgust  those  people  who,  in  their  speculations  on  politics, 
are  not  reasoners  but  fanciers  ; whose  opinions,  even  when 
sincere,  are  not  produced,  according  to  the  ordinary  law  of 
intellectual  births,  by  induction  or  inference,  but  are  equiv- 
ocally generated  by  the  heat  of  fervid  tempers  out  of  the 
overflowing  of  tumid  imaginations.  A man  of  this  class  is 
always  in  extremes.  He  cannot  be  a friend  to  liberty  with- 
out calling  for  a community  of  goods,  or  a friend  to  order 
without  taking  under  his  protection  the  foulest  excesses  of 
tyranny,  His  admiration  oscillates  between  the  most 


314  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

wortliless  of  rebels  and  the  most  worthless  of  oppressors, 
between  Marten,  tlie  dispjrace  of  the  High  Court  of  Justice, 
and  Laud,  the  disgrace  of  the  Star  Chamber.  lie  can  for- 
give any  thing  but  tem])erance  and  im])artiality.  lie  has  a 
certain  sympathy  with  the  violence  of  his  opponents,  as  well 
as  with  that  of  his  associates.  In  every  furious  partizan  he 
«ees  cither  his  present  self  or  his  former  self,  the  pensioner 
tliat  is,  or  the  Jacobin  that  has  been.  But  he  is  unable  to 
comprehend  a writer  who,  steadily  attached  to  principles, 
is  indifferent  about  names  and  badges,  and  who  judges  of 
characters  with  equable  severity,  not  altogether  untinctured 
with  cynicism,  but  free  from  the  slightest  touch  of  passion, 
party  spirit,  or  caprice. 

We  should  probably  like  Mr.  Hallam’s  book  more  if, 
instead  of  pointing  out  with  strict  fidelity  the  bright  points 
and  the  dark  spots  of  both  parties,  he  had  exerted  himself 
to  whitewash  the  one  and  to  blacken  the  other.  But  we 
should  certainly  prize  it  far  less.  Eulogy  and  invective  may 
be  had  for  the  asking.  But  for  cold  rigid  justice,  the  one 
weight  and  the  one  measure,  we  know  not  where  else  we 
can  look. 

No  portion  of  our  annals  has  been  more  perplexed  and 
misrepresented  by  writers  of  different  parties  than  the  his- 
tory of  the  Reformation.  In  this  labyrinth  of  falsehood 
and  sophistry,  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Ilallam  is  peculiarly 
valuable.  It  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the  even-handed 
justice  with  Avhich  he  deals  out  castigation  to  right  and  left 
on  the  rival  persecutors. 

It  is  vehemently  maintained  by  some  wudters  of  the 
present  day  that  Elizabeth  persecuted  neither  Papists  nor 
Puritans  as  such,  and  that  the  severe  measures  which  she  oc- 
casionally adopted  were  dictated,  not  by  religious  intolerance, 
but  by  political  necessity.  Even  the  excellent  account  of 
chose  times  wLich  Mr.  Ilallam  has  given  has  not  altogether 
imposed  silence  on  the  authors  of  this  fallacy.  The  title  of 
the  Queen,  they  say,  was  annulled  by  the  Pope;  her  throne 
was  given  to  another  ; her  subjects  were  incited  to  rebellion; 
her  life  was  menaced;  every  Catholic  was  bound  in  con- 
science to  be  a traitor  ; it  was  therefore  against  traitors,  not 
against  Catholics,  that  the  penal  laws  were  enacted. 

In  order  that  our  readers  may  be  fully  competent  to  ap- 
preciate the  merits  of  this  defence,  we  will  state,  as  concisely 
as  uossible,  the  substance  of  some  of  these  laws. 

As  soon  as  Elizabeth  ascended  the  throne,  and  before 


HALLAM. 


315 


the  least  hostility  to  her  government  had  been  shown  by 
the  Catholic  population,  an  act  passed  prohibiting  the  cele- 
bration of  the  rites  of  the  Romish  Church,  on  pain  of  forfeit 
ure  for  the  first  offence,  of  a year’s  imprisonment  for  the 
second,  and  of  perpetual  imprisonment  for  the  third. 

A law  was  next  made  in  1562,  enacting,  that  all  who  had 
ever  graduated  at  the  Universities  or  received  holy  orders, 
all  lawyers,  and  all  magistrates,  should  take  the  oath  of 
supremacy  when  tendered  to  them,  on  pain  of  forfeiture  and 
imprisonment  during  the  royal  pleasure.  After  the  lapse  of 
three  months,  the  oath  might  again  be  tendered  to  them  ; 
and,  if  it  were  again  refused,  the  recusant  was  guilty  of  high 
treason.  A prospective  law,  however  severe,  framed  to  ex- 
clude Catholics  from  the  liberal  professions,  would  have 
been  mercy  itself  compared  with  this  odious  act.  It  is  a 
retrospective  statute  ; it  is  a retrospective  penal  statute  ; it  is 
a retrospective  penal  statute  against  a large  class.  We  will 
not  positively  affirm  that  a law  of  this  description  must  al- 
ways, and  under  all  circumstances,  be  unjustifiable.  But 
the  presumption  against  it  is  most  violent ; nor  do  we  re- 
member any  crisis,  either  in  our  own  history,  or  in  the 
history  of  any  other  country,  which  would  have  rendered 
such  a provision  necessary.  In  the  present  case,  what  cir- 
cumstances called  for  extraordinary  rigor?  There  might 
be  disaffection  among  the  Catholics.  The  prohibition  of 
their  worship  would  naturally  produce  it.  But  it  is  from 
their  situation,  not  from  their  conduct,  from  the  wrongs 
which  they  had  suffered,  not  from  those  which  they  had 
committed,  that  the  existence  of  discontent  among  them 
must  be  inferred.  There  were  libels,  no  doubt,  and  j^roph- 
ecies,  and  rumors,  and  suspicions,  strange  grounds  for  a law 
inflicting  capital  penalties,  ex  post  facto^  on  a large  body  of 
men. 

Eight  years  later,  the  bull  of  Pius  deposing  Elizabeth 
produ  ?ed  a third  law.  This  law,  to  which  alone,  as  we  con- 
ceive, .he  defence  now  under  our  consideration  can  apply, 
provides  that,  if  any  Catholic  shall  convert  a Protestant  to 
the  Romish  Church,  they  shall  both  suffer  death  as  for  high 
treason. 

We  believe  that  we  might  safely  content  ourselves  with 
stating  the  fact,  and  leaving  it  to  the  judgment  of  every 
plain  Englishman.  Recent  controversies  have,  however, 
given  so  much  importance  to  this  subject,  that  we  will  offer 
a few  remarks  on  it. 


316  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

In  the  first  place,  the  arguments  whicli  are  urged  in  favoi 
of  Elizabetli  apply  with  much  greater  force  to  the  case  of 
her  sister  Mary.  The  Catliolics  did  not,  at  the  time  of 
Elizabeth’s  accession,  rise  in  arms  to  scat  a Pretender  on 
her  throne.  But  before  Mary  had  given,  or  could  give, 
provocation,  the  most  distinguished  Protestants  attempted 
to  set  aside  her  rights  in  favor  of  the  Lady  Jane.  That  at- 
tempt, and  the  subsequent  insurrection  of  Wyatt,  furnished 
at  least  as  good  a plea  for  tlie  burning  of  Protestants,  as  the 
conspiracies  against  Elizabeth  furnish  for  the  hanging  and 
embowelling  of  Papists. 

The  fact  is  that  both  pleas  are  worthless  alike.  If  mch 
arguments  are  to  pass  current,  it  will  be  easy  to  ])rove  that 
there  was  never  such  a thing  as  religious  persecution  since  ; 
the  creation.  For  there  never  was  a religious  persecution  ■ 

in  which  some  odious  crime  was  not,  justly  or  unjustly,  said  i 

to  be  obviously  deducible  from  the  doctrines  of  the  persecuted  j 
party.  We  might  say  that  the  CaBsars  did  not  persecute  \ 
the  Christians;  that  they  only  punished  men  who  were  ; 
charged,  rightly  or  wrongly,  with  burning  Rome,  and  with 
committing  the  foulest  abominations  in  secret  assemblies ; ■ 

and  that  the  refusal  to  throw  frankincense  on  the  altar  of 
Jupiter  was  not  the  crime  but  only  evidence  of  the  crime. 

We  might  say  that  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  was  | 
intended  to  extirpate,  not  a religious  sect,  but  a political 
party.  For,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  proceedings  of  the  Hugue- 
nots, from  the  conspiracy  of  Amboise  to  the  battle  of  Moncon-  ^ 

tour,  had  given  much  more  trouble  to  the  French  monarchy  ^ 
than  the  Catholics  have  ever  given  to  the  English  monarchy 
since  the  Reformation  ; and  that  too  with  much  less  excuse.  ■; 

The  true  distinction  is  perfectly  obvious.  To  punish  a ; 
man  because  he  has  committed  a crime,  or  because  he  is  ; 

believed,  though  unjustly,  to  have  committed  a crime,  is  not  ' 

persecution.  To  punish  a m tin,  because  we  infer  from  the 
nature  of  some  doctrine  which  he  holds,  or  from  the  conduct  ^ 
of  other  persons  who  hold  the  same  doctrines  with  him,  that  ) 
he  will  commit  a crime,  is  persecution,  and  is,  in  every  case, 
foolish  and  wicked.  ^ 

When  Elizabeth  put  Ballard  and  Babington  to  death,  i 
shs  was  not  persecuting.  Nor  should  we  have  accused  her 
government  of  persecution  for  passing  any  law,  however 
severe,  against  overt  acts  of  sedition.  But  to  argue  that,  be- 
cause a man  is  a Catholic,  he  must  think  it  right  to  murder  , 
a heretical  sovereign,  and  that  because  he  thinks  it  right  he 


HALL4.M 


317 


w^ill  attempt  to  do  it,  and  then,  to  found  on  this  conclusion 
a law  for  punishing  him  as  if  he  had  done  it,  is  plain  per- 
secution. 

If,  indeed,  all  men  reasoned  in  the  same  manner  on  the 
same  data,  and  always  did  what  they  thought  it  their  duty 
to  do,  this  mode  of  dispensing  punishment  might  be  ex- 
tremely judicious.  But  as  people  who  agree  about  pre- 
mises often  disagree  about  conclusions,  and  as  no  man  in 
the  world  acts  up  to  his  own  standard  of  right,  there  are 
two  enormous  gaps  in  the  logic  by  which  alone  penalties  for 
opinions  can  be  defended.  The  doctrine  of  reprobation,  in 
the  judgment  of  many  very  able  men,  follows  by  syllogistic 
necessity  from  the  doctrine  of  election.  Others  conceive 
that  the  Antinomian  heresy  directly  follows  from  the  doc- 
trine of  reprobation ; and  it  is  very  generally  thought  that 
licentiousness  and  cruelty  of  the  worst  descri]3tion  are  likely 
to  be  the  fruits,  as  they  often  have  been  the  fruits,  of  An- 
tinomian opinions.  This  chain  of  reasoning,  we  think,  is  as 
perfect  in  all  its  parts  as  that  which  makes  out  a Papist  to 
be  necessarily  a traitor.  Yet  it  would  be  rather  a strong 
measure  to  hang  all  the  Calvinists,  on  the  ground  that,  if 
they  were  spared,  they  would  infallibly  commit  all  the  atro- 
cities of  Matthias  and  Knipperdoling.  For,  reason  the 
matter  as  we  may,  experience  shows  us  that  a man  may  be- 
lieve in  election  without  believing  in  reprobation,  that  he 
may  believe  in  reprobation  without  being  an  Antinomian, 
and  that  he  may  be  an  Antinomian  without  being  a bad 
citizen.  Man,  in  short,  is  so  inconsistent  a creature  that  it 
is  impossible  to  reason  from  his  belief  to  his  conduct,  or 
from  one  part  of  his  belief  to  another. 

We  do  not  believe  that  every  Englishman  who  was  rec- 
onciled to  the  Catholic  Church  would,  as  a necessary  con- 
sequence, have  thought  himself  justified  in  deposing  or 
assassinating  Elizabeth.  It  is  not  sufficient  to  say  that  the 
convert  must  have  acknowledged  the  authority  of  the  Pope, 
and  that  the  Pope  had  issued  a bull  against  the  Queen. 
We  know  through  what  strange  loopholes  the  human  mind 
contrives  to  escape,  when  it  wishes  to  avoid  a disagreeable 
inference  from  an  admitted  proposition.  We  know  how 
long  the  Jansenists  contrived  to  believe  the  Pope  infallible 
in  matters  of  doctrine,  and  at  the  same  time  to  believe  doc-^ 
trines  which  h.e  pronounced  to  be  heretical.  Let  it  pass, 
however,  tliat  every  Catholic  in  tlie  kingdom  tliought  that 
Elizabeth  might  be  lawfully  murdered.  Still  the  old  maxim, 


318 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


that  what  is  the  business  of  everybody  is  tlie  business  of  no- 
body, is  particularly  likely  to  hold  good  in  a case  in  which 
a cruel  death  is  the  almost  inevitable  consequence  of  making 
any  attempt. 

Of  the  ten  thousand  clergymen  of  the  Church  of  England, 
there  is  scarcely  one  who  would  not  say  that  a man  who 
should  leave  his  country  and  friends  to  preach  the  Gospel 
among  savages,  and  who  should,  after  laboring  indefatigably 
without  any  hope  of  reward,  terminate  his  life  by  martyr- 
dom, would  deserve  the  warmest  admiration.  Yet  we 
doubt  whether  ten  of  the  ten  thousand  ever  thought  of 
going  on  such  an  expedition.  Why  should  we  suppose  that 
conscientious  motives,  feeble  as  they  are  constantly  found 
to  be  in  a good  cause,  should  be  omnipotent  for  evil  ? Doubt- 
less there  was  many  a jolly  Popish  priest  in  the  old  manor- 
houses  of  the  northern  counties,  who  would  have  admitted, 
in  theory,  the  deposing  power  of  the  Pope,  but  who  would 
not  have  been  ambitious  to  be  stretched  on  the  rack,  even 
though  it  were  to  be  used,  according  to  the  benevolent  pro- 
viso of  Lord  Burleigh,  “ as  charitably  as  such  a thing  can 
be,”  or  to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  even  though, 
by  that  rare  indulgence  which  the  Queen,  of  her  special 
grace,  certain  knowledge,  and  mere  motion,  sometimes  ex- 
tended to  very  mitigated  cases,  he  were  allowed  a fairtime 
to  choke  before  the  hangman  began  to  grabble  in  his  en- 
trails. 

But  the  laws  passed  against  the  Puritans  had  not  even 
the  wretched  excuse  which  we  have  been  considering.  In 
this  case,  the  cruelty  was  equal,  the  danger  infinitely  less. 
In  fact,  the  danger  was  created  solely  by  the  cruelty.  But 
it  is  superfluous  to  press  the  argument.  By  no  artifice  of 
ingenuity  can  the  stigma  of  persecution,  the  worst  blemish 
of  the  English  Church,  be  effaced  or  patched  over.  Hei 
doctrines,  we  well  know,  do  not  tend  to  intolerance.  She 
admits  the  possibility  of  salvation  out  of  her  own  pale.  But 
this  circumstance,  in  itself  honorable  to  her,  aggravates  the 
sin  and  the  shame  of  those  who  persecuted  in  her  name, 
Dominic  and  De  Montfort  did  not,  at  least,  murder  and 
torture  for  differences  of  opinion  which  they  considered  as 
trifling.  It  was  to  stop  an  infection  which,  as  they  believed, 
hurried  to  certain  perdition  every  soul  which  it  seized,  that 
they  employed  their  fire  and  steel.  The  measures  of  the 
English  government  with  respect  to  the  Papists  and  Puritans 
sprang  from  a widely  different  principle.  If  those  who  deny 


HAI<LAM. 


319 


that  the  founders  of  the  ('hurcli  were  guilty  of  religious 
persecution  mean  only  tliat  tlic  founders  of  the  Church  were 
not  intluenced  by  any  religious  motive,  we  perfectly  agree 
with  them.  Neither  tlie  penal  code  of  Elizabeth,  nor  the 
more  hateful  system  by  which  Charles  the  Second  attempted 
to  force  Episcopacy  on  tlie  Scotch,  had  an  origin  so  noble. 
The  cause  is  to  be  sought  in  some  circumstances  which  at* 
tended  the  Reformation  in  England,circumstancesof  which 
the  effects  long  continued  to  be  felt,  and  may  in  some  degree 
be  traced  even  at  the  present  day. 

In  Germany,  in  .France,  in  Switzerland,  and  in  Scotland, 
the  contest  against  the  Papal  power  was  essentially  a relig- 
ious contest.  In  all  those  countries,  indeed,  the  cause  of  the 
Reformation,  like  every  other  great  cause,  attracted  to  itself 
many  supporters  influenced  by  no  conscientious  principle, 
many  who  quitted  the  Established  Church  only  because  they 
thought  her  in  danger,  many  who  were  weary  of  her  restraints, 
and  many  who  were  greedy  for  her  spoils.  But  it  was  not 
by  these  adherents  that  the  separation  was  there  Conducted. 
They  were  welcome  auxiliaries  ; their  support  was  too  often 
purchased  by  unworthy  compliances ; but,  however  exalted 
in  rank  or  power,  they  Avere  not  the  leaders  in  the  enterprise. 
Men  of  a widely  different  description,  men  Avho  redeemed 
great  infirmities  and  errors  by  sincerity,  disinterestedness, 
energy,  and  courage,  men  Avho,  with  many  of  the  vices  of  rev- 
olutionary chiefs  and  of  polemic  divines,  united  some  of  the 
highest  qualities  of  apostles,  were  the  real  directors.  They 
might  be  violent  in  innovation  and  scurrilous  in  controversy. 
They  might  sometimes  act  Avith  inexcusable  severity  toAvards 
opponents,  and  sometimes  connive  disreputably  at  the  aucos 
of  poAverful  allies.  But  fear  Avas  not  in  them,  nor  hypocrisy, 
nor  avarice,  nor  any  petty  selfishness.  Their  one  great  ob- 
ject Avas  the  demolition  of  the  idols  and  the  purification 
of  the  sanctuary.  If  they  Avere  too  indulgent  to  the  failings 
of  eminent  men  from  Avhose  patronage  they  expected  advan- 
tage to  the  church,  they  ne\^er  flinched  before  persecuting 
tyrants  and  hostile  armies.  For  that  theological  system  to 
which  they  sacrificed  the  lives  of  others  without  scruple,  they 
were  ready  to  throAV  aAvay  their  OAvn  lives  Avithout  fear. 
Such  were  the  authors  of  the  great  schism  on  the  Continent 
and  in  the  northern  part  of  this  island.  The  Elector  of 
Saxony  and  the  Landgrave  of  Hesse,  the  Prince  of  Conde  and 
the  King  of  Navarre,  the  Earl  of  Moray  and  the  Earl  of 
Morton,  might  espouse  the  Protestant  opinions,  or  might 


820 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  Aviuyings. 


pretend  to  es])ouse  them  ; hut  it  was  from  Lutlier,  froiA 
Calvin,  from  Knox,  that  tlie  Keformatioii  took  its  cliaracter. 

England  has  no  such  names  to  show  ; not  that  she  wanted 
men  of  sincere  i)icty,  of  deej)  learning,  of  steady  and  adven- 
turous courage.  But  these  were  thrown  into  the  background. 
Elsewhere  men  of  this  character  were  the  principals.  Here 
they  acted  a secondary  part.  Elsewhere  worldliness  was  the 
tool  of  zeal.  Here  zeal  was  the  tool  of  worldliness.  A King, 
whose  character  may  be  best  described  by  saying  that  he 
was  despotism  itself  personified,  unprincijded  ministers,  a 
rapacious  aristocracy,  a servile  Parliament,  such  were  the 
instruments  by  which  England  was  delivered  from  the  yoke 
of  Rome.  The  work  which  had  been  begun  by  Henry,  the 
murderer  of  his  wives,  was  continued  by  Somerset,  the  mur- 
derer of  his  brother,  and  completed  by  Elizabeth,  the  murder- 
er of  her  guest.  Sprung  from  brutal  passion,  nurtured  by 
selfish  policy,  the  Reformation  in  England  displayed  little  of 
what  had,  in  other  countries,  distinguished  it,  unflinching  and 
unsparing  devotion,  boldness  of  speech,  and  singleness  of  eye. 
These  were  indeed  to  be  found  ; but  it  was  in  the  lower  ranks 
of  the  party  which  opposed  the  authority  of  Rome,  in  such  men 
as  Hooper,  Latimer,  Rogers,  and  Taylor.  Of  those  who  had 
any  important  share  in  bringing  the  Reformation  about,  Rid 
ley  was  perhaps  the  only  person  who  did  not  consider  it  as  a 
mere  political  job.  Even  Ridley  did  not  play  a very  prom- 
inent part.  Among  the  statesmen  and  prelates  who  princi' 
pally  gave  the  tone  to  the  religious  changes,  there  is  one, 
and  one  only,  whose  conduct  partiality  itself  can  attribute 
to  any  other  than  interested  motives.  It  is  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  his  character  should  have  been  the  subject 
of  fierce  controversy.  We  need  not  say  that  we  speak  of 
Cranmer. 

Mr.  Hallam  has  been  severely  censured  for  saying,  with 
his  usual  placid  severity,  that,  ‘‘  if  we  weigh  the  character  of 
this  prelate  in  an  equal  balance,  he  will  appear  far  indeed 
removed  from  the  turpitude  imputed  to  him  by  his  enemies ; 
yet  not  entitled  to  any  extraordinary  veneration.”  We  will 
venture  to  expand  the  sense  of  Mr.  Hallam,  and  to  comment 
on  it  thus : — If  we  consider  Cranmer  merely  as  a statesman^ 
he  will  not  appear  a much  worse  man  than  Wolsey,  Gardiner, 
Cromwell,  or  Somerset.  But,  when  an  attempt  is  made  to 
set  him  up  as  a saint,  it  is  scarcely  possible  for  any  man  of 
sense  who  knows  the  history  of  the  times  to  preserve  his 
gravity.  If  the  memory  of  the  archbishop  had  been  left  to 


HALLAM. 


S2i 


find  its  own  j)lace,  lie  would  have  soon  been  lost  among  the 
crowd  which  is  mingled 

“ A quel  cattivo  coro 
Degli  angeli,  che  non  furoii  ribelli, 

Ne  fur  fedeli  a Dio,  ma  i)er  se  foro/' 

And  the  only  notice  which  it  would  have  been  necessary  to 
take  of  his  name  would  have  been 

Non  ragioniara  di  lui ; ma  guarda,  e passa." 

I hit,  since  his  admirers  challenge  for  him  a place  in  the 
noble  army  of  martyrs,  his  claims  require  fuller  discussion. 

The  origin  of  his  greatness,  common  enough  in  the  scan- 
dalous chronicles  of  courts,  seems  strangely  out  of  f)lace  in 
a hagiology.  Cranmer  rose  into  favor  by  serving  Henry 
in  the  disgraceful  affair  of  his  first  divorce.  He  promoted 
the  marriage  of  Anne  Boleyn  with  the  King.  On  a frivo- 
lous pretence  he  pronounced  that  marriage  null  and  void. 
On  a pretence,  if  possible,  still  more  frivolous,  he  dissolved 
the  ties  which  bound  the  shameless  tyrant  to  Anne  of  Cleves. 
He  attached  himself  to  Cromwell  while  the  fortunes  of 
Cromwell  flourished.  He  voted  for  cutting  off  Cromwell’s 
head  without  a trial,  when  the  tide  of  royal  favor  turned. 
He  conformed  backwards  and  forwards  as  the  King  changed 
his  mind.  He  assisted,  while  Henry  lived,  in  condemning 
to  the  flames  those  who  denied  the  doctrine  of  transubstan- 
tiation.  He  found  out,  as  soon  as  Henry  was  dead,  that  the 
doctrine  was  false.  He  was,  however,  not  at  a loss  for  people 
to  burn.  The  authority  of  his  station  and  of  his  gray  hairs 
was  employed  to  overcome  the  disgust  with  which  an  intelll 
gent  and  virtuous  child  regarded  persecution.  Intolerance 
is  always  bad.  But  the  sanguinary  intolerance  of  a man  who 
thus  wavered  in  his  creed  excites  a loathing,  to  which  it  is 
difficult  to  give  vent  without  calling  foul  names.  Equally 
false  to  political  and  to  religious  obligations,  the  primate 
was  first  the  tool  of  Somerset,  and  then  the  tool  of  Nor- 
thumberland. When  the  Protector  Avished  to  put  his  own 
brother  to  death,  Avithout  even  the  semblance  of  a trial,  he 
found  a ready  instrument  in  Cranmer.  In  spite  of  the 
canon  law,  which  forbade  a churchman  to  take  any  part  in 
matters  of  blood,  the  archbishop  signed  the  warrant  for  the 
atrocious  sentence.  When  Somerset  had  been  in  his  turn 
destroyed,  his  destroyer  received  the  support  of  Cranmer  in 
a wicked  attempt  to  change  the  course  of  the  succession. 
VoL,  I.— 21 


822 


MACAULAY  S MTSCELLANEO JTS  WRITINGS. 


The  apology  made  for  lum  by  liis  admirers  only  renders 
his  conduct  more  contemptible.  lie  comf)lied,  it  is  said, 
against  his  better  judgment,  because  he  could  not  resist  the 
entreaties  of  Edvv^ard.  A holy  j)relate  of  sixty,  one  would 
think,  might  be  better  employed  by  the  bedside  of  a dying 
child,  than  in  committing  crimes  at  the  request  of  the  young 
disciple.  If  Cranmer  had  shown  half  as  much  firmness 
Avheii  Edward  requested  liim  to  commit  treason  as  he  had 
before  shown  when  Edward  requested  him  not  to  commit 
murder,  he  might  have  saved  the  country  from  one  of  the 
greatest  misfortunes  that  it  ever  underwent.  lie  became, 
from  whatever  motive,  the  accomplice  of  the  worthless 
Dudley.  The  virtuous  scruples  of  another  young  and  amia- 
ble miiiH  were  to  be  overcome.  As  Edward  had  been  forced 
into  persecution,  Jane  was  to  be  seduced  into  treason.  No 
transaction  in  our  annals  is  more  unjustifiable  than  this. 
If  a hereditary  title  were  to  be  respected,  Mary  possessed  it. 
If  a parliamentary  title  were  preferable,  Mary  possessed  that 
also.  If  the  interest  of  the  Protestant  religion  required  a 
departure  from  the  ordinary  rule  of  succession,  that  interest 
would  have  been  best  served  by  raising  Elizabeth  to  the 
throne.  If  the  foreign  relations  of  the  kingdom  were  con- 
sidered, still  stronger  reasons  might  be  found  for  preferring 
Elizabeth  to  Jane.  There  was  great  doubt  whether  Jane 
or  the  Queen  of  Scotland  had  the  better  claim ; and  that 
doubt  would,  in  all  probability,  have  produced  a war  both 
with  Scotland  and  with  France,  if  the  project  of  Northum- 
berland had  not  been  blasted  in  its  infancy.  That ’Elizabeth 
had  a better  claim  than  the  Queen  of  Scotland  was  indispu- 
table. To  the  part  which  Cranmer,  and  unfortunately 
some  better  men  than  Cranmer,  took  in  this  most  reprehen- 
sible scheme,  much  of  the  severity  with  which  the  Protes- 
tants were  afterwards  treated  must  in  fairness  be  ascribed. 

The  plot  failed ; Popery  triumphed ; and  Cranmer  re- 
canted. Most  people  look  on  his  recantation  as  a single 
blemish  on  an  honorable  life,  the  frailty  of  an  unguarded 
moment.  But,  in  fact,  his  recantation  was  in  strict  accord- 
ance with  the  system  on  which  he  had  constantly  acted. 
It  was  part  of  a regular  habit.  It  was  not  the  first  recanta- 
tion that  he  had  made ; and,  in  all  probability,  if  it  had  an- 
swered its  purpose,  it  would  not  have  been  the  last.  We 
do  not  blame  him  for  not  choosing  to  be  burned  alive.  It 
is  no  very  severe  reproach  to  any  person  that  he  does  not 
possess  heroic  fortitude.  But  surely  a man  who  liked  the 


HALLAM.  • 


323 


the  fire  so  little  should  have  hud  some  sympathy  others. 
A persecutor  who  inflicts  nothing  which  he  is  not  ready  to 
endure  d^^erves  some  respect.  But  when  a man  who  loves 
his  doctrines  more  than  the  lives  of  his  neighbors  loves  his 
own  little  finger  better  than  his  doctrines,  a very  simple 
argument  fortiori  will  enable  us  to  estimate  the  amount 
ot  his  benevolence. 

But  his  martyrdom,  it  is  said,  redeemed  everything.  It 
is  extraordinary  that  so  much  ignorance  should  exist  on  this 
subject.  The  fact  is  that  if  a martyr  be  a man  who  chooses 
to  die  rather  tlian  to  renounce  his  opinions,  Cranmer  was 
no  more  a martyr  than  Dr.  Dodd.  He  died,  solely  because 
he  could  not  help  it.  He  never  retracted  his  recantation 
till  he  found  he  had  made  it  in  vai/i.  The  Queen  was  fully 
resolved  that.  Catholic  or  Protestant,  he  should  burn.  Then 
he  spoke  out,  as  people  generally  speak  out  when  they  are 
at  the  point  of  death  and  have  nothing  to  hope  or  to 
fear  on  earth.  If  Mary  had  suffered  him  to  live,  we  suspect 
that  he  would  have  heard  mass  and  received  absolution,  like 
a good  Catholic,  till  the  accession  of  Elizabeth,  and  that  he 
would  then  have  purchased,  by  another  apostasy,  the  power 
of  burning  men  better  and  braver  than  himself. 

We  do  not  mean,  however,  to  represent  him  as  a mon- 
ster of  wickedness.  He  was  not  wantonly  cruel  or  treach- 
erous. He  was  merely  a supple,  timid,  interested  courtier, 
in  times  of  frequent  and  violent  change.  That  which  has 
always  been  represented  as  his  distinguishing  virtue,  the  facil- 
ity with  which  he  forgave  his  enemies,  belongs  to  the  char- 
acter. Slaves  of  his  class  are  never  vindictive,  and  never 
grateful.  A present  interest  effaces  past  services  and  past  in- 
juries from  their  minds  together.  Their  only  object  is  self- 
preservation  ; and  for  this  they  conciliate  those  who  w' rong 
them,  just  as  they  abandon  those  who  serve  them.  Before 
we  extol  a man  for  his  forgiving  temper,  we  should  inq.iire 
whether  he  is  above  revenge,  or  below  it. 

Somerset  had  as  little  principle  as  his  coadjutor.  Of 
Henry,  an  orthodox  Catholic,  except  that  he  chose  to  be  hia 
own  Pope,  and  of  Elizabeth,  who  certainly  had  no  objection 
to  the  theology  of  Rome,  we  need  say  nothing.  These  four 
persons  were  the  great  authors  of  the  English  Reformation. 
Three  of  them  had  a direct  interest  in  the  extension  of  the 
royal  prerogative.  The  fourth  was  the  ready  tool  of  any 
who  could  frighten  him.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see  from  what 
motives,  and  on  what  plan,  such  persons  w(»uld  be  inclined 


324  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  avkitings. 

to  remodel  the  Church.  The  scheme  was  merely  to  transfer 
the  fuH  cup  of  sorceries  from  the  Babylonian  enchantress 
to  other  hands,  sj)illing  as  little  as  possible  by  the  way. 
The  Catholic  doctrines  and  rites  were  to  l)e  retained  in  the 
Church  of  England.  But  the  King  was  to  exercise  the  con- 
trol which  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  Roman  Pontiff.  In 
this  Henry  for  a time  succeeded.  The  extraordinary  force 
of  his  character,  the  fortunate  situation  in  which  he  stood 
with  respect  to  foreign  powers,  and  the  vast  resources 
which  the  suppression  of  the  monasteries  placed  at  his  dis- 
posal, enabled  him  to  oppress  both  the  religious  factions 
equally.  He  punished  with  impartial  severity  those  who 
renounced  the  doctrines  of  Rome,  and  those  who  acknowl- 
edged her  jurisdiction.  The  basis,  however,  on  which  he 
attempted  to  establish  his  power  was  too  narrow  to  be  durable. 
It  would  have  been  im})0ssible  even  for  him  long  to  persecute 
both  persuasions.  Even  under  his  reign  there  had  been 
insurrections  on  the  part  of  the  Catholics,  and  signs  of 
a spirit  which  was  likely  soon  to  produce  insurrection  on 
the  part  of  the  Protestants.  It  was  plainly  necessary,  there- 
fore, that  the  Crown  should  form  an  alliance  with  one  or 
with  the  other  side.  To  recognize  the  Papal  supremacy, 
would  have  been  to  abandon  the  whole  design.  Reluctantly 
and  sullenly  the  government  at  last  joined  the  Protestants. 
In  forming  this  junction,  its  object  was  to  procure  as  much 
aid  as  possible  for  its  selfish  undertaking,  and  to  make  the 
smallest  possible  concessions  to  the  sj)irit  of  religious  inno- 
vation. 

From  this  compromise  the  Church  of  England  sprang. 
In  many  resj)ects,  indeed,  it  has  been  well  for  her  that,  in 
an  age  of  exuberant  zeal,  her  principal  founders  were  mere 
politicians.  To  this  circumstance  she  owes  her  moderate 
articles,  her  decent  ceremonies,  her  noble  and  pathetic 
liturgy.  Her  worship  is  not  disfigured  by  mummery.  Yet 
fihe  has  preserved,  in  a far  greater  degree  than  any  of  her 
Protestant  sisters,  that  art  of  striking  the  senses  and  filling 
the  imagination  in  which  the  Catholic  Church  so  eminently 
excels.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  continued  to  be,  for 
more  than  a hundred  and  fifty  years,  the  servile  handmaid 
of  monarchy,  the  steady  enemy  of  public  liberty.  The 
divine  right  of  kings,  and  the  duty  of  passively  obeying  all 
their  commands,  were  her  favorite  tenets.  She  held  those 
tenets  firmly  through  times  of  oppression,  persecution,  and 
licentiousness  5 while  law  was  trampled  down ; while  judg- 


HALLAM. 


325 


ment  was  perverted  ; wliile  tlie  people  were  eaten  as  though 
they  were  bread.  Once,  and  but  once,  for  a moment,  and 
but  for  a moment,  when  her  own  dignity  and  property  were 
touclied,  she  forgot  to  practice  the  submission  which  she  had 
tauglit. 

Elizabetli  clearly  discerned  the  advantages  which  were 
to  be  derived  from  a close  connection  between  the  monarchy 
and  the  priesthood.  At  the  time  of  her  accession,  indeed, 
she  evidently  meditated  a partial  reconciliation  with  Rome  ; 
and,  throughout  her  whole  life,  she  leaned  strongly  to  some 
of  the  most  obnoxious  parts  of  the  Catholic  system.  But 
her  imperious  temper,  her  keen  sagacity,  and  her  peculiar 
situation,  soon  led  her  to  attach  herself  completely  to  a 
church  which  was  all  her  own.  On  the  same  principle  on 
which  she  joined  it,  she  attempted  to  drive  all  her  people 
within  its  pale  by  persecution.  She  supported  it  by  severe 
penal  laws,  not  because  she  thought  conformity  to  its  dis- 
cipline necessary  to  salvation  ; but  because  it  was  the  fast- 
ness which  arbitrary  power  was  making  strong  for  itself ; 
because  she  expected  a more  profound  obedience  from  those 
who  saw  in  her  both  their  civil  and  their  ecclesiastical  chief, 
than  from  those  who,  like  the  Papists,  ascribe  spiritual 
authority  to  the  Pope,  or  from  those  who,  like  some  of  the 
Puritans,  ascribed  it  only  to  Heaven.  To  dissent  from  her 
establishment  was  to  dissent  from  an  institution  ‘founded 
with  an  express  view  to  the  maintenance  and  extension  of 
the  royal  prerogative. 

This  great  Queen  and  her  successors,  by  considering 
conformity  and  loyalty  as  identical,  at  length  made  them  so. 
With  respect  to  the  Catholics,  indeed,  the  rigor  of  persecu^ 
tion  abated  after  her  death.  James  soon  found  that  they 
were  unable  to  injure  him,  and  that  the  animosity  which  the 
Puritan  party  felt  towards  them  drove  them  of  necessity  to 
take  refuge  under  his  throne.  During  the  subsequent  con- 
flict, their  fault  was  anything  but  disloyalty.  On  the  other 
hand,  James  hated  the  Puritans  with  more  than  the  hatred 
of  Elizabeth.  Her  aversion  to  them  was  political ; his  was 
personal.  The  sect  had  plagued  him  in  Scotland,  where  he  was 
weak ; and  he  was  determined  to  be  even  with  them  in  England, 
where  he  was  powerful.  Persecution  gradually  changed  a sect 
into  a faction.  That  there  was  anything  in  the  religious  opin- 
ions of  the  Puritans  which  rendered  them  hostile  to  monar- 
chy has  never  been  proved  to  our  satisfaction.  After  our 
civil  contests,  it  became  the  fashion  to  say  that  Presbyteri- 


326 


?iacaui.ay\s  miscellaneous  irriti tings. 


anisin  ^vas  connected  witli  Republicanism  ; just  as  it  lias 
been  the  fashion  to  say,  since  the  time  of  the  Frencli  Rev- 
olution, that  Infidelity  is  connected  'vvitli  Republicanism. 
It  is  perfectly  true  that  a church,  constituted  on  the  Calvin 
istic  model,  will  not  strengthen  the  hands  of  the  sovereign 
so  much  as  a hierarchy  which  consists  of  several  ranks, 
differing  in  dignity  and  emolument,  and  of  which  all  the 
members  are  constantly  looking  to  the  government  for  pro- 
motion. But  experience  has  clearly  shown  that  a Calvin- 
istic  church,  like  every  other  church,  is  disaffected  when  it 
is  persecuted,  quiet  Avhen  it  is  tolerated,  and  actively  loyal 
when  it  is  favored  and  cherished.  Scotland  has  had  a Pi*es- 
byterian  establishment  during  a century  and  a half.  Yet 
her  General  Assembly  has  not,  during  that  period,  given 
half  so  much  trouble  to  the  government  as  the  Convocation 
of  the  Church  of  England  gave  during  the  thirty  years  which 
followed  the  Revolution.  That  James  and  Charles  should 
have  been  mistaken  in  this  point  is  not  surprising.  But  we 
are  astonished,  we  must  confess,  that  men  of  our  own  time, 
men  who  have  before  them  the  proof  of  what  toleration  can 
effect,  men  who  may  see  with  their  own  eyes  that  the  Pres- 
byterians are  no  such  monsters  when  government  is  wise 
enough  to  let  them  alone,  should  defend  the  persecutions  of 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  as  indispensable  to 
the  safety  of  the  church  and  the  throne. 

How  persecution  protects  churches  and  thrones  was 
soon  made  manifest.  A systematic  political  opposition, 
vehement,  daring,  and  inflexible,  sprang  from  a schism 
about  trifles,  altogether  unconnected  with  the  real  interests 
of  religion  or  of  the  state.  Before  the  close  of  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth  this  opposition  began  to  show  itself.  It  broke 
forth  on  the  question  of  the  monopolies.  Even  the  imperial 
Lioness  w^as  compelled  to  abandon  her  prey,  and  slowly  and 
Sercely  to  recede  before  the  assailants.  The  spirit  of  lioerty 
grew  with  the  growing  wealth  and  intelligence  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  feeble  struggles  and  insults  of  James  irritated  in- 
stead of  suppressing  it ; and  the  events  which  immediately 
followed  the  accession  of  his  son  portended  a contest  of  no 
common  severity,  between  a king  resolved  to  be  absolute, 
and  a people  resolved  to  be  free. 

The  famous  proceedings  of  the  third  Parliament  of 
Charles,  and  the  tyrannical  measures  which  followed  its  dis- 
solution, are  extremely  ^vell  described  by  Mr.  Ilallam.  ISTo 
writer,  think,  has  show  n,  in  so  clear  and  satisfactory  a 


HALLAM. 


327 


manner,  that  the  Government  then  entertained  a fixed  pur- 
pose of  destroying  tlie  old  parliamentary  constitution  of 
England,  or  at  least  of  reducing  it  to  a mere  shadow.  .We 
hasten,  however,  to  a part  of  his  work  which,  though  it 
abounds  in  valuable  information  and  in  remarks  well  de- 
feei  ring  to  be  attentively  considered,  and  though  it  is,  like 
the  rest,  evidently  written  in  spirit  of  perfect  impartiality, 
a])])ears  to  us,  in  many  points,  objectionable. 

We  pass  to  the  year  1640.  The  fate  of  the  short  Par- 
liament held  in  that  year  clearly  indicated  the  views  of  the 
King.  That  a parliament  so  moderate  in  feeling  should 
have  met  after  so  many  years  of  oppression  is  truly  wonder 
ful.  Hyde  extols  its  loyal  and  conciliatory  spirit.  Its  con- 
duct, we  are  told,  made  the  excellent  Falkland  in  love  wkh 
the  very  name  of  Parliament.  We  think,  indeed,  wkh 
Oliver  St.  John,  that  it«  moderation  was  carried  too  far, 
and  that  the  times  required  sharper  and  more  decided 
councils.  It  was  fortunate,  however,  that  the  King  had 
another  opportunity  of  showing  that  hatred  of  the  liberties 
of  his  subjects  which  was  the  ruling  principle  of  all  his  con- 
duct. The  sole  crime  of  the  Commons  was  that,  meeting 
after  a long  intermission  of  parliaments,  and  after  a long 
series  of  cruelties  and  illegal  imposts,  they  seemed  inclined 
to  examine  grievances  before  they  would  vote  supplies. 
For  this  insolence  they  were  dissolved  almost  as  soon  as 
they  met. 

Defeat,  universal  agitation,  financial  embarrassments, 
disorganization  in  every  part  of  the  government,  compelled 
Charles  again  to  convene  the  Houses  before  the  close  of  the 
same  year.  Their  meeting  was  one  of  the  great  eras  in  the 
history  of  the  civilized  world.  Whatever  of  political  free- 
dom exists  either  in  Europe  or  in  America,  has  sprung, 
directly  or  indirectly,  from  those  institutions  which  they 
secured  and  reformed.  We  never  turn  to  the  annals  of 
those  times  without  feeling  increased  admiration  of  the 
patriotism,  the  energy,  the  decision,  the  consummate  wie 
dom,  which  marked  the  measures  of  that  great  Parliament, 
from  the  day  on  which  it  met  to  the  commencement  of  civil 
hostilities. 

The  impeachment  of  Strafford  was  the  first,  and  perhaps 
the  greatest  blow.  The  whole  conduct  of  that  celebrated 
man  proved  that  he  had  formed  a deliberate  scheme  to  sub- 
vert the  fundamental  laws  of  England.  Those  parts  of  his 
coiTespuiideace  which  have  been  brought  to  light  since  his 


b28 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


deatli  place  llic  matter  heyond  a doubt.  One  of  f is  ad* 
niircrs  has,  indeed,  olfered  to  sliow  “that  the  passages 
which  Mr.  Ilallam  lias  invidiously  extracted  from  th?  cor- 
resj)ondence  betw^een  Laud  and  Strafford,  as  j)roving  tlieii 
design  to  introduce  a tliorougli  tyranny,  refer  not  to  any 
such  design,  but  to  a thorougli  reform  in  tlie  affairs  of  state, 
and  the  thorougli  maintenance  of  just  autliority.”  We  will 
recommend  two  or  three  of  these  passages  to  the  especial 
notice  of  our  readei*s. 

All  who  know  anything  of  those  times,  know  that  the 
conduct  of  Hampden  in  the  affair  of  the  ship-money  met 
with  the  warm  approbation  of  every  respectable  Royalist 
in  England.  It  drew  forth  the  ardent  eulogies  of  the 
champions  of  the  prerogative  and  even  of  the  Crown  law- 
yers themselves.  Clarendon  allows  Hampden’s  demeanor 
through  the  whole  proceeding  to  have  been  such,  that  even 
those  who  watched  for  an  occasion  against  the  defender  of 
the  people,  were  compelled  to  acknowledge  themselves  un- 
able to  find  any  fault  in  him.  That  he  was  right  in  the 
point  of  law  is  now  universally  admitted.  Even  had  it 
been  otherwise,  he  had  a fair  case.  Five  of  the  Judges, 
servile  as  our  Courts  then  were,  pronounced  in  his  favor. 
The  majority  against  hiin  was  the  smallest  possible.  In 
no  country  retaining  the  slighest  vestige  of  constitutional 
liberty  can  a modest  and  decent  aj^peal  to  the  laws  be 
treated  as  a crime.  Strafford,  however,  recommends  that 
for  taking  the  sense  of  a legal  tribunal  on  a legal  question, 
Hampden  should  be  punished,  and  punished  severely, 
“wdiipt,”  says  the  insolent  apostate,  whipt  into  his  senses. 
If  the  rod,”  he  adds,  ‘‘  be  so  used  that  it  smarts  not,  I am 
the  more  sorry.”  This  is  the  maintenance  of  just  authority. 

In  civilized  nations,  the  most  arbitrary  governments 
hav^e  generally  suffered  justice  to  have  a free  course  in 
private  suits.  Strafford  wished  to  make  every  cause  in 
every  court  subject  to  the  royal  prerogative.  He  com- 
plained that  in  Ireland  he  was  not  permitted  to  meddle  in 
cases  between  party  and  party.  “ I know  very  well,”  says 
he,  “ that  the  common  lawyers  will  be  passionately  against 
it,  who  are  wont  to  put  such  a prejudice  upon  all  other  j^ro- 
fessions,  as  if  none  were  to  be  trusted,  or  capable  to  ad- 
minister justice,  but  themselves  ; yet  how  well  this  suits 
with  monarchy,  when  they  monopolize  all  to  be  governed 

their  year-books,  you  in  England  have  a costly  example.’’ 
We  arc  really  curious  to  know  by  what  arguments  it  is  to 


HALLAM. 


be  proved,  that  the  power  of  interfering  in  the  lawsuits  of 
individuals  is  part  of  the  just  authority  of  the  executive  gov- 
ernment. 

It  is  not  strange  tliat  a man  so  careless  of  the  common 
civil  rights,  which  even  despots  have  generally  respected, 
should  treat  with  scorn  the  limitations  which  the  cor  stitu- 
tion  imposes  on  the  royal  prerogative.  We  niiglit  quote 
pages  : but  we  will  content  ourselves  with  a single  specimen ; 
— “ The  debts  of  the  Crown  being  taken  off,  you  may  gov- 
ern as  you  please  : and  most  resolute  I am  that  may  be  done 
without  borrowing  any  help  forth  of  the  King’s  lodgings.” 

Such  was  the  theory  of  that  thorough  reform  in  the  state 
which  Strafford  meditated.  His  whole  practice,  from  th^ 
day  on  which  he  sold  himself  to  the  court,  was  in  strict 
conformity  to  his  theory.  For  his  accomplices  various  ex- 
cuses may  be  urged,  ignorance,  imbecility,  religious  bigotry. 
But  Wentworth  had  no  such  plea.  His  intellect  was 
capacious.  His  early  prepossessions  were  on  the  side  of 
popular  rights.  He  knew  the  whole  beauty  and  value  of  the 
system  which  he  attempted  to  deface.  He  was  the  first  of 
the  Rats,  the  first  of  those  statesmen  whose  patriotism  has 
been  only  the  coquetry  of  political  prostitution,  and  whose 
profligacy  has  taught  governments  to  adoj^t  the  old  maxim 
of  the  slave-market,  that  it  is  cheaper  to  buy  than  to  breed, 
to  import  defenders  from  an  Opposition  than  to  rear  them 
in  a Ministry.  He  was  the  first  Englishman  to  whom  a 
peerage  was  a sacrament  of  infamy,  a baptism  into  the 
communion  of  corruption.  As  he  was  the  earliest  of  the 
hateful  list,  so  was  he  also  by  far  the  greatest ; eloquent, 
sagacious,  adventurous,  intrepid,  ready  of  invention,  im- 
mutable of  purpose,  in  every  talent  which  exalts  or  destroys 
nations  pre-eminent,  the  lost  Archangel,  the  Satan  of  the 
apostasy.  The  title  for  which,  at  the  time  of  his  desertion, 
ho  exchanged  a^name  honorably  distinguished  in  the  cause 
of  the  people,  reminds  us  of  the  appellation  which,  from  the 
moment  of  the  first  treason,  fixed  itself  on  the  fallen  Son  of 
the  Morning, 

“ Satan  ; so  call  him  now. — His  former  name 
Is  heard  no  more  in  heaven.” 

The  defection  of  Strafford  from  the  popular  party  con- 
tributed mainly  to  draw  on  him  the  hatred  of  his  contein- 
poraries.  It  has  since  made  him  an  object  of  peculiar  interest 
to  those  whoso  lives  have  been  spent,  like  his,  in  proving 


330  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

that  there  is  no  malice  like  the  malice  of  a renegade.  NoUl 
ing  can  be  more  natural  or  becoming  than  that  one  turncoat 
should  eulogize  another. 

Many  enemies  of  public  liberty  have  been  distinguished 
by  their  private  virtues.  But  Strafford  was  the  same 
throughout.  As  was  the  statesman,  such  was  the  kinsman, 
and  such  was  the  lover,  llis  conduct  towards  Lord  Mount- 
morris  is  recorded  by  Clarendon.  For  a word  which  can 
scarcely  be  called  rash,  which  could  not  have  been  made  the 
subject  of  an  ordinary  civil  action,  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
dragged  a man  of  high  rank,  married  to  a relative  of  that 
saint  about  whom  he  whimpered  to  the  Peers,  before  a 
tidbunal  of  slaves.  Sentence  of  death  was  passed.  Every 
thing  but  death  was  inflicted.  Yet  the  treatment  which 
Lord  Ely  experienced  was  still  more  scandalous.  That 
nobleman  was  thrown  into  prison,  in  order  to  compel  him 
to  settle  his  estate  in  a manner  agreeable  to  his  daughter-in- 
law,  whom,  as  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  Strafford  had 
debauched.  These  stories  do  not  rest  on  vague  report.  The 
historians  most  partial  to  the  minister  admit  their  truth, 
and  censure  them  in  terms  which,  though  too  lenient  for  the 
occasion,  are  still  severe.  These  facts  are  alone  sufficient  to 
justify  the  appellation  with  which  Pym  branded  him,  “ the 
wicked  Earl.” 

In  spite  of  all  Strafford’s  vices,  in  spite  of  all  his  danger- 
ous projects,  he  was  certainly  entitled  to  the  benefit  of  the 
law  ; but  of  the  law  in  all  its  rigor ; of  the  law  according 
to  the  utmost  strictness  of  the  letter,  which  killeth.  He 
was  not  to  be  torn  in  pieces  by  a mob,  or  stabbed  in  the 
back  by  an  assassin.  He  was  not  to  have  punishment  meted 
out  to  him  from  his  own  iniquitous  measure.  But  of  justice 
in  the  whole  range  of  its  wide  armory,  contained  one  weapon 
which  could  pierce  him,  that  weapon  his  pursuers  were 
bound,  before  God  and  man,  to  employ. 

“ If  he  may 

Find  mercy  in  the  law,  ’tis  his  : if  none, 

Let  him  not  seek’t  of  us.” 

Such  was  the  language  which  the  Commons  might  justly 
use. 

Did  then  the  articles  against  Strafford  strictly  amount 
to  high  treason  ? Many  people,  who  know  neither  what  the 
articles  were,  nor  what  high  treason  is,  will  answer  m the 
negative,  simply  because  the  accused  person,  speaking  for 
his  life,  took  that  ground  of  defence.  The  Journals  of  the 


HALLAM. 


331 


Lords  show  that  the  Judges  were  consulted.  They  answered, 
with  one  accord,  that  the  articles  on  which  the  Earl  was  con- 
victedr^  amounted  to  high  treason.  This  judicial  opinion, 
eTen  if  we  suppose  it  to  have  been  erroneous,  goes  far  to 

i'ustify  the  Parliament.  The  judgment  pronounced  in  the 
exchequer  Chamber  has  always  been  urged  by  the  apologists 
of  Charles  in  defence  of  his  conduct  respecting  ship-money. 
Yet  on  that  occasion  there  was  but  a bare  majority  in  favor 
of  the  party  at  whose  pleasure  all  the  magistrates  composing 
the  tribunal  were  removable.  The  decision  in  the  case 
of  Strafford  was  unanimous  ; as  far  as  we  can  judge,  it  was 
unbiassed ; and,  though  there  may  be  room  for  hesitation, 
we  think  on  the  whole  that  it  was  reasonable.  It  may  be 
remarked,”  says  Mr.  ITallaai , that  the  fifteenth  article 
of  the  impeachment,  charging  Strafford  with  raising  money 
by  his  own  authority,  and  quartering  troops  on  the  peojde 
of  Ireland,  in  order  to  compel  their  obedience  to  his  unlaw- 
ful requisitions,  upon  which,  and  upon  one  other  article, 
not  upon  the  whole  matter,  the  Peers  voted  him  guilty, 
does,  at  least  approach  very  nearly,  if  we  may  not  say  more 
to  a substantive  treason  within  the  statute  of  Edward  the 
Third,  as  a levying  of  war  against  the  King.”  This  most 
sound  and  just  exposition  has  provoked  a very  ridiculous 
reply.  It  should  seem  to  be  an  Irish  construction  this,” 
says  an  assailant  of  Mr.  Hallam,  ‘‘  which  makes  the  raising 
money  for  the  King’s  service,  with  his  knowledge,  and  by 
his  approbation,  to  come  under  the  head  of  levying  war  on 
the  King,  and  therefore  to  be  high  treason.”  Now,  people 
who  undertake  to  write  on  points  of  constitutional  law 
should  know,  what  every  attorney’s  clerk  and  every  for- 
ward schoolboy  on  an  upper  form  knows,  that,  by  a funda- 
mental maxim  of  our  polity,  the  King  can  do  no  wrong; 
that  every  court  is  bound  to  suppose  his  conduct  and  his 
sentiments  to  be,  on  every  occasion,  such  as  they  ought  to  be  ; 
and  that  no  evidence  can  be  received  for  the  purpose  of  set- 
ting aside  this  loyal  and  salutary  presumption.  The  Lords, 
therefore,  were  bound  to  take  it  for  granted  that  the  King 
considered  arms  which  were  unlawfully  directed  against  his 
people  as  directed  against  his  own  throne. 

The  remarks  of  Mr.  Hallam  on  the  bill  of  attainder, 
though,  as  usual,  weighty  and  acute,  do  not  perfectly  satisfy 
us.  He  defends  the  principle,  but  objects  to  the  severity  of 
the  punishment.  That,  on  great  emergencies,  the  State  may 
justifi^ifbiy  pass  a retrospective  act  against  an  offender,  we 


832 


MACAULAY’S  MISCULLANUOUS  WRITINGS. 


have  no  doubt  whatever.  We  are  ac(jiiainted  with  onl^ 
one  argument  on  the  other  side,  wliicli  has  in  it  enougli  of 
reason  to  bear  an  answer.  Warning,  it  is  said,  is  the  end  of 
punishment.  But  a punisliment  inflicted,  not  by  a general 
rule,  but  by  an  arbitrary  discretion,  cannot  serve  the  purpose 
of  a warning.  It  is  therefore  useless  ; and  useless  pain  ouglit 
not  to  be  inflicted.  This  sophism  has  found  its  way  into 
several  books  on  penal  legislation.  It  admits,  however,  of  a 
vei*y  simple  refutation.  In  the  first  place,  punishments  ex 
2yost  facto  are  not  altogether  useless  even  as  warnings.  They 
are  warnings  to  a particular  class  which  stand  in  great  need  of 
warnings,  to  favorites  and  ministers.  Th(.‘y  remind  persons 
of  this  description  that  there  may  be  a day  of  reckoning  for 
those  who  ruin  and  enslave  their  country  in  all  the  forms  of 
law.  But  this  is  not  all.  Warning  is,  in  ordinary  cases, 
the  principal  end  of  punishment ; but  it  is  not  the  only  end. 
To  remove  the  offender,  to  preserve  society  from  those 
dangers  which  are  to  be  apprehended  from  his  incorrigible 
depravity  is  often  one  of  the  ends.  In  the  case  of  such  a 
knave  as  Wild,  or  such  a ruffian  as  Thurtell,  it  is  a very 
important  end.  In  the  case  of  a powerful  and  wdeked  states- 
man, it  is  infinitely  more  important:  so  important,  as  alone 
to  justify  the  utmost  severity,  even  though  it  Avere  certain 
that  his  fate  would  not  deter  others  from  imitating  his  ex- 
ample. At  present,  indeed,  we  should  think  it  extremely 
pernicious  to  take  such  a course,  even  with  a worse  minister 
than  Strafford,  if  a worse  could  exist ; for,  at  present.  Par- 
liament has  only  to  withhold  its  support  from  a Cabinet  to 
produce  an  immediate  change  of  hands.  The  case  was 
widely  different  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First.  That 
Prince  had  governed  during  eleven  years  without  any  Par- 
liament ; and,  even  when  Parliament  was  sitting,  had  sup- 
ported Buckingham  against  its  most  violent  remonstrances. 

Mr.  Hallam  is  of  opinion  that  a bill  of  pains  and  penal- 
ties ought  to  have  been  passed  : but  he  draws  a distinction 
less  just,  we  think,  than  his  distinctions  usually  are.  His 
opinion,  so  far  as  w^e  can  collect  it,  is  this,  that  there  are 
almost  insurmountable  objections  to  retrospective  laws  for 
capital  punishment,  but  that,  where  the  punishment  stops 
short  of  death,  the  objections  arc  comparatively  trifling. 
Now  the  practice  of  taking  the  severity  of  the  penalty  into 
consideration,  when  the  question  is  about  the  mode  of  pro- 
cedure and  the  rules  of  evidence,  is  no  doubt  sufficiently  com- 
mon. We  often  see  a man  convicted  of  a simple  larceny  on 


riALLAM. 


333 


evidence  on  which  he  would  not  be  convicted  ot  a burglary 
It  sometimes  happens  that  a jury,  wlien  there  is  strong 
suspicion,  but  not  absolute  demonstration,  that  an  act  un- 
questionably amounting  to  murder,  was  committed  by  the 
prisoner  before  them,  will  find  him  guilty  of  manslaughter. 
But  this  is  surely  very  irrational.  The  rules  of  evidence  no 
more  depend  on  the  magnitude  of  the  interests  at  stake  than 
the  rules  of  arithmetic.  We  might  as  well  say  that  we  have 
a greater  chance  of  throwing  a size  when  we  are  playing  for 
a penny  than  when  we  are  playing  for  a thousand  pounds, 
as  that  a form  of  trial  which  is  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of 
justice,  in  a matter  affecting  liberty  and  property,  is  insuf- 
ficient in  a matter  affecting  life.  Nay,  if  a mode  of  pro- 
ceeding be  too  lax  for  capital  cases,  it  is,  d fortiori^  too  lax 
for  all  others  ; for,  in  capital  cases,  the  principles  of  human 
nature  will  always  afford  considerable  security.  No  judge 
is  so  cruel  as  he  who  indemnifies  himself  for  scrupulosity  in 
cases  of  blood,  by  license  in  affairs  of  smaller  importance 
The  difference  in  tale  on  the  one  side  far  more  than  makes 
up  for  the  difference  in  weight  on  the  other. 

If  there  be  any  universal  objection  to  retrospective 
punishment,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  But  such  is  not 
the  opinion  of  Mr.  Hallam.  He  approves  of  the  mode  of 
proceeding.  He  thinks  that  a punishment,  not  previously 
affixed  by  law  to  the  offences  of  Strafford,  should  have  been 
inflicted  ; that  Strafford  should  have  been,  by  act  of  Par- 
liament, degraded  from  his  rank,  and  condemned  to  perpet- 
ual banishment.  Our  difficulty  would  have  been  at  the  first 
step,  and  there  only.  Indeed  we  can  scarcely  conceive 
that  any  case  which  does  not  call  for  capital  punishment 
can  call  for  punishment  by  a retrospective  act.  We  can 
scarcely  conceive  a man  so  wicked  and  so  dangerous  that 
the  whole  course  of  law  must  be  disturbed  in  order  to  reach 
him,  yet  not  so  wicked  as  to  deserve  the  severest  sentence, 
nor  so  dangerous  as  to  require  the  last  and  surest  custody, 
that  of  the  grave.  If  we  had  thought  that  Strafford  might 
be  safely  suffered  to  live  in  France,  we  should  have  thought 
it  better  that  he  should  continue  to  live  in  England,  than 
that  he  should  be  exiled  by  a special  act.  As  to  degrada- 
tion, it  was  not  the  Earl,  but  the  general  and  the  statesman, 
whom  the  people  had  to  fear.  Essex  said,  on  that  occasion, 
with  more  truth  than  elegance,  ‘‘  Stone  dead  hath  no  fel- 
low.” And  often  during  the  civil  wars  the  Parliament 
had  reason  to  rejoice  that  an  irreversible  law  and  an  im* 


334  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

passable  barrier  protected  them  from  tlie  yalor  and  capacity 
of  Wentworth. 

It  is  remarkable  that  neither  Hyde  nor  Falkland  voted 
against  the  bill  of  attainder.  There  is,  indeed,  reason  to 
believe  that  Falkland  spoke  in  favor  of  it.  In  one  respect, 
as  Mr.  Ilallam  has  observed,  the  proceeding  was  honorably 
distinguished  from  others  of  the  same  kind.  An  act  was 
passed  to  relieve  the  children  of  Strafford  from  the  forfeiture 
and  corruption  of  blood  which  were  the  legal  consequences 
of  the  sentence.  The  Crown  had  never  shown  equal  gener- 
osity in  a case  of  treason.  The  liberal  conduct  of  the  Com- 
mons has  been  fully  and  most  appropriately  repaid.  The 
House  of  Wentworth  has  since  that  time  been  as  much 
distinguished  by  public  spirit  as  by  power  and  splendor, 
and  may  at  the  present  moment  boast  of  members  with 
whom  Say  and  Hampden  would  have  been  proud  to  act. 

It  is  somewhat  curious  that  the  admirers  of  Strafford 
should  also  be,  without  a single  exception,  the  admirers  of 
Charles  ; for,  whatever  we  may  think  of  the  conduct  of  the 
Parliament  towards  the  unhappy  favorite,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  treatment  which  he  received  from  his  master 
was  disgraceful.  Faithless  alike  to  his  people  and  to  his 
tools,  the  King  did  not  scruple  to  play  the  part  of  the  cow- 
ardly approver,  who  hangs  his  accomplice.  It  is  good  that 
there  should  be  such  men  as  Charles  in  every  league  of 
villainy.  It  is  for  such  men  that  the  offer  of  pardon  and 
reward  which  appears  after  a murder  is  intended.  They  are 
indemnified,  remunerated,  and  despised.  The  very  magis- 
trate who  avails  himself  of  their  assistance  looks  on  them  as 
more  contemptible  than  the  criminal  whom  they  betray.  Was 
Straft’ord  innocent  ? Was  he  a meritorious  servant  of  the 
Crown  ? If  so,  what  shall  we  think  of  the  Prince,  who  having 
solemnly  promised  him  that  not  a hair  of  his  head  should  be 
hurt,  and  possessing  an  unquestioned  constitutional  right  to 
save  him,  gave  him  up  to  the  vengeance  of  his  enemies  ? 
There  were  some  points  which  we  know  that  Charles  would 
not  concede,  and  for  which  he  was  willing  to  risk  the  chances 
of  civil  war.  Ought  not  a King,  who  will  make  a stand  for 
anything,  to  make  a stand  for  the  innocent  blood  ? Was 
Strafford  guilty?  Even  on  this  supposition,  it  is  difficult  not 
to  feel  disdain  for  the  partner  of  his  guilt,  the  tempter  turned 
punisher.  If,  indeed,  from  that  time  forth,  the  conduct  of 
Charles  had  been  blameless,  it  might  have  been  said  that  his 
eyes  were  'it  last  o])encd  to  the  errors  of  his  former  conduct, 


HALLAM. 


335 


and  that,  m sacrificing  to  the  wishes  of  his  Parliament  a 
minister  whose  crime  had  been  a devotion  too  zealous  to  the 
interests  of  his  ])rcrogative,  he  gave  a painful  and  deeply 
humiliating  proof  of  the  sincerity  of  his  repentance.  We 
may  describe  the  King’s  behavior  on  this  occasion  in  terms 
resembling  those  whicli  Hume  has  employed  when  speaking 
of  the  conduct  of  Churchill  at  the  Revolution.  It  required 
ever  after  the  most  rigid  justice  and  sincerity  in  the  dealings 
of  Charles  with  his  people  to  vindicate  his  conduct  towards 
his  friend.  His  subsequent  dealings  with  his  people,  liow- 
ever,  clearly  showed,  that  it  was  not  from  any  respect  for 
the  Constitution,  or  from  any  sense  of  the  deep  criminality 
of  the  plans  in  which  Strafford  and  himself  had  been  engaged, 
that  he  gave  up  his  minister  to  the  axe.  It  became  evident 
that  he  had  abandoned  a servant  who,  deeply  guilty  as  to  all 
others,  was  guiltless  to  him  alone,  solely  in  order  to  gain  time 
for  maturing  other  schemes  of  tyranny,  and  purchasing  the 
aid  of  other  W entworths.  He,  who  would  not  avail  himself  of 
the  power  which  the  laws  gave  him  to  save  an  adherent  to 
whom  his  honor  was  pledged,  soon  showed  that  he  did  not 
scruple  to  break  every  law  and  forfeit  every  pledge,  in  order 
to  work  the  ruin  of  his  opponents. 

“ Put  not  your  trust  in  princes'!  ” was  the  expression  of 
the  fallen  minister,  when  he  heard  that  Charles  had  con- 
sented to  his  death.  The  whole  history  of  the  times  is  a 
sermon  on  that  bitter  text.  The  defence  of  the  Long  Par- 
liament rs  comprised  in  the  dying  words  of  its  victim. 

The  early  measures  of  that  Parliament  Mr.  Hallam  in 
general  approves.  But  he  considers  the  proceedings  which 
took  place  after  the  recess  in  the  summer  of  1641  as  mis- 
chievous and  violent.  He  thinks  that,  from  that  time,  the 
demands  of  the  Houses  were  not  warranted  by  any  imminent 
danger  to  the  Constitution,  and  that  in  the  war  which  ensued 
they  were  clearly  the  aggressors.  As  this  is  one  of  the  most 
interostkig  questions  in  our  history,  we  will  venture  to  state, 
at  some  length,  the  reasons  which  have  led  us  to  form  an 
opinion  on  it  contrary  to  that  of  a writer  whose  judgment  we 
so  highly  respect. 

We  will  premise  that  we  think  worse  of  King  Charles 
the  First  than  even  Mr.  Hallam  appears  to  do.  The  fixed 
hatred  of  liberty  which  was  the  principle  of  the  King’s  public 
conduct,  the  unscrupulousness  with  which  he  adopted  any 
means  which  might  enable  him  to  attain  his  ends,  the  read! 
ness  with  which  he  gave  promises,  the  impudence  with 


336 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


■I' 


wliich  ho  broke  them,  tlie  cruel  indifference  with  which  he  J 

threw  away  his  useless  or  damaged  tools,  made  him,  at  least  i 

till  his  character  was  fully  exposed  and  his  power  shakcm  to  ■ 
its  foundations,  a more  dangerous  enemy  to  the  Constitution  M 
than  a man  of  far  greater  talents  and  resolution  might  have  M 
been.  Such  princes  may  still  be  seen,  the  scandals  of  the  1 
southern  thrones  of  Europe,  princes  false  alike  to  the 
accomplices  who  have  served  them  and  to  the  o[)])oiients  ^ 
who  have  spared  them,  princes  who,  in  the  hour  of  danger, 
concede  everything,  swear  everything,  hold  out  their  cheeks  i 
to  every  smiter,  give  up  to  punishment  every  instrument  of 
their  tyranny,  and  await  with  meek  and  smiling  implacability 
the  blessed  day  of  perjury  and  revenge.  ^ 

We  will  pass  by  the  instances  of  oppression  and  false-  | 
hood  which  disgraced  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of  Charles.  ^ 
We  will  leave  out  of  the  question  the  whole  history  of  his  j 
third  Parliament,  the  price  which  he  exacted  for  assenting 
to  the  Petition  of  Right,  the  perfidy  with  which  he  violated 
his  engagements,  the  death  of  Eliot,  the  barbarous  punish- 
ments inflicted  by  the  Star-Chamber,  the  ship-money,  and 
all  the  measures  now  universally  condemned,  which  disgraced 
his  administration  from  1630  to  1640.  We  will  admit  that 
it  might  be  the  duty  of  the  Parliament,  after  punishing  the 
most  guilty  of  his  creatures,  after  abolishing  the  inquisitorial 
tribunals  which  had  been  the  instruments  of  his  tyranny, 
after  reversing  the  unjust  sentence  of  his  victims,  to  pause  in  ! 
its  course.  The  concessions  which  had  been  made  were 
great,  the  evils  of  civil  war  obvious,  the  advantages  even  of 
victory  doubtful.  The  former  errors  of  the  King  might  be 
imputed  to  youth,  to  the  pressure  of  circumstances,  to  the 
influence  of  evil  counsel,  to  the  undefined  state  of  the  law. 

We  firmly  believe  that  if,  even  at  this  eleventh  hour,  Charles 
had  acted  fairly  towards  his  people,  if  he  had  even  acted 
fairly  towards  his  own  partisans,  the  House  of  Comic ons  I 

would  have  given  him  a fair  chance  of  retrieving  the  public  J 

confidence.  Such  was  the  opinion  of  Clarendon.  He  dis-  I 

tinctly  states  that  the  fury  of  opposition  had  abated,  that  a j 

reaction  had  begun  to  take  place,  that  the  majority  of  those  t 

who  had  taken  part  against  the  King  were  desirous  of  an  j 

honorable  and  complete  reconciliation,  and  that  the  more  1 

violent,  or,  as  it  soon  appeared,  the  more  judicious  members  J 

of  the  popular  party  were  fast  declining  in  credit.  The  i 

Remonstrance  had  been  carried  with  great  difficulty.  The  | 

uncompromising  antagonists  of  the  court,  such  as  Cromwell,  J 


HALLAM. 


387 


had  begun  to  talk  of  selling  their  estates  and  leaving  England 
The  event  soon  showed,  tliat  they  were  the  only  men  who 
really  understood  how  much  inhumanity  and  fraud  lay  under 
the  constitutional  language  and  gracious  demeanor  of  the 
King. 

The  attempt  to  seize  the  five  members  was  undoubtedly 
the  real  cause  of  the  war.  From  that  moment,  the  Icyal 
confidence  with  which  most  of  the  popular  party  were  be- 
ginning to  regard  the  King  was  turned  into  hatred  and 
incurable  suspicion.  From  that  moment,  the  Parliament 
was  compelled  to  surround  itself  with  defensive  arms. 
From  that  moment,  the  city  assumed  the  appearance  of  a 
garrison.  From  that  moment,  in  the  jdirase  of  Clarendon, 
the  carriage  of  Hampden  became  fiercer,  that  he  drew  the 
sword  and  threw  away  the  scabbard.  For,  from  that  mo- 
ment, it  must  have  been  evident  to  every  impartial  observer 
that,  in  the  midst  of  professions,  oaths,  and  smiles,  the  ty- 
rant was  constantly  looking  forward  to  an  absolute  sway, 
and  to  a bloody  revenge. 

The  advocates  of  Charles  have  very  dexterously  con- 
trived to  conceal  from  their  readers  the  real  nature  of  this 
transaction.  By  making  concessions  apparently  candid  and 
ample,  they  elude  the  great  accusation.  They  allow  that 
the  measure  was  weak  and  even  frantic,  an  absurd  ca- 
price of  Lord  Digby,  absurdly  adopted  by  the  King. 
And  thus  they  save  their  client  from  the  full  penalty  of  his 
transgression,  by  entering  a plea  of  guilty  to  the  minor 
offence.  To  us  his  conduct  appears  at  this  day  as  at  the 
time  it  appeared  to  the  Parliament  and  the  city.  We  think 
it  by  no  means  so  foolish  as  it  pleases  his  friends  to  represent 
it,  and  far  more  wicked. 

In  the  first  place,  the  transaction  was  illegal  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  The  impeachment  was  illegal.  The  process 
was  illegal.  The  service  was  illegal.  If  Charles  wished  to 
prosecute  the  five  members  for  treason,  a bill  against  them 
should  have  been  sent  to  a grand  jury.  That  a commoner 
cannot  be  tried  for  high  treason  by  the  Lords,  at  the  suit  of 
the  Crown,  is  part  of  the  very  alphabet  of  our  law.  That 
no  man  can  be  arrested  by  the  King  in  person  is  equally 
clear.  Tins  was  an  established  maxim  of  our  jurisprudence 
even  *11  the  time  of  Edward  tlie  Fourth.  “A  subject,”  said 
Chief  Justice  Markham  to  tliat  Prince,  ‘‘may  arrest  for 
treason  : the  King  cannot ; for,  if  the  arrest  be  illegal,  the 
party  has  no  remedy  against  the  King.” 

Von* 


838 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Tlie  time  at  Avliicli  Cliarles  took  tliis  step  also  desiTves 
consideration.  We  have  already  said  tliat  the  ardor  which 
tlie  Parliament  had  dis])layed  at  the  time  of  its  first  meeting 
had  considerahly  abated,  that  the  leading  oj)j)onents  of  the 
court  Avere  desponding,  and  that  their  followers  were  in 
general  inclined  to  milder  and  more  temperate  measures 
than  those  Avhich  had  hitherto  been  ])ursucd.  In  every 
country,  and  in  none  more  than  in  England,  there  is  a dis- 
position to  take  the  part  of  those  Avho  are  unmercifully  run 
down  and  Avho  seem  destitute  of  all  means  of  defence. 
Every  man  who  has  obscrA^ed  the  ebb  and  flow  of  public 
feeling  in  our  OAvn  time  will  easily  recall  examples  to  illus- 
trate this  remark.  An  English  statesman  ought  to  pay 
assiduous  worship  to  Nemesis,  to  be  most  ap]irehensive  of 
ruin  when  he  is  at  the  height  of  poAver  and  popularity,  and 
to  dread  his  enemy  most  when  most  completely  prostrated. 
The  fact  of  tlie  Coalition  Ministry  in  1784  is  perhaps  the 
strongest  instance  in  our  history  of  the  operation  of  this 
principle.  A fcAV  weeks  turned  the  ablest  and  most  ex- 
tended Ministry  that  CA^er  existed  into  a feeble  Opposition, 
and  raised  a King  who  Avas  talking  of  retiring  to  Hanover 
to  a height  of  poAver  which  none  of  his  predecessors  had  en- 
joyed since  the  ReA^olution.  A crisis  of  this  description  was 
CAudently  approaching  in  1642.  At  such  a crisis,  a Prince 
of  a really  honest  and  generous  nature,  Avho  had  erred,  who 
had  seen  his  error,  Avho  had  regretted  the  lost  affections  of 
his  people,  Avdio  rejoiced  in  the  daAvming  hope  of  regaining 
them,  would  be  peculiarly  careful  to  take  no  step  A\^hich 
could  give  occasion  of  offence,  CA'en  to  the  unreasonable. 
On  the  other  hand,  a tyrant,  aaEoso  Avhole  life  was  a lie,  who 
hated  the  Constitution  the  more  because  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  feign  respect  for  it,  and  to  Avhom  his  OAAm  honor 
and  the  love  of  his  people  Avere  as  nothing,  would  select 
such  a crisis  for  some  appalling  Auolation  of  law,  for  some 
stroke  which  might  remove  the  chiefs  of  an  Opposition,  and 
intimidate  the  herd.  This  Charles  attempted.  He  missed 
his  blow ; but  so  narrowly,  that  it  would  haA^e  been  mere 
madness  in  those  at  Avhom  it  Avas  aimed  to  trust  him  again. 

It  deserves  to  be  remarked  that  the  King  had,  a short 
time  before,  promised  the  most  respectable  Royalists  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  Falkland,  Colcpepper,  and  Hyde,  that 
he  would  take  no  measure  in  wh  An  that  House  was  con- 
cerned, Avithout  consulting  them.  On  this  occasion  he  did 
not  consult  them.  His  conduct  astonished  them  more  than 


HALLAM. 


339 


any  otl.er  members  of  tlie  assembly.  Clarendon  says  that 
they  Averc  dec])ly  hurt  by  lliis  Avaiit  of  coniidence,  and  the 
more  hurt,  because,  if  they  had  been  consulted,  they  Avould 
have  done  their  utmost  to  dissuade  Charles  from  so  improper 
a proceeding.  Did  it  never  occur  to  Clarendon,  will  it  not 
at  least  occur  to  men  less  partial,  that  there  was  good  rea 
son  for  tliis  ? When  the  danger  to  the  throne  seemed  im- 
minent, the  King  was  ready  to  put  himself  for  a time  into 
the  hands  of  those  who,  though  they  disapproved  of  his  past 
conduct,  thought  that  the  remedies  liad  now  become  Avorse 
than  the  distempers.  But  we  belicA^e  that  in  his  heart  he 
regarded  both  the  parties  in  the  Parliament  with  feelings 
of  aversion  Avliich  differed  only  in  the  degree  of  their  inten- 
sity, and  that  the  aAvful  warning  Avhich  he  pro])osed  to  give, 
by  immolating  the  principal  supporters  of  the  Ivemoiistrance, 
was  ])artly  intended  for  the  instruction  of  those  Avho  had 
concurred  in  censuring  the  shi2:>-money  and  in  abolishing  the 
Star-Chamber. 

Tlie  Commons  informed  the  King  that  their  members 
should  be  forthcoming  to  answer  any  charge  legally  brought 
against  them.  The  Lords  refused  to  assume  the  unconstitu- 
tional office  with  Avhich  he  attempted  to  invest  them.  And 
what  Av as  then  his  conduct?  He  went,  attended  by  hun- 
dreds of  armed  men,  to  seize  the  objects  of  Lis  hatred  in  the 
House  itself.  The  party  opposed  to  him  more  than  insinu- 
ated that  his  purpose  was  of  the  most  atrocious  kind.  We 
will  not  condemn  him  merely  on  their  suspicions.  We  will 
not  hold  him  ansAverable  for  the  sanguinary  expressions  of 
the  loose  brawlers  Avho  composed  his  train.  We  will  judge 
of  his  act  by  itself  alone.  And  we  say,  without  hesitation, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  acquit  him  of  having  meditated  vio- 
lence, and  violence  Avhich  might  probably  end  in  blood. 
He  knew  that  the  legality  of  his  proceedings  Avas  denied. 
He  must  have  knoAvn  that  some  of  the  accused  members 
Avere  men  not  likely  to  submit  peaceably  to  an  illegal  arrest. 
There  was  every  reason  to  expect  that  he  would  find  them 
in  their  places,  that  they  would  refuse  to  obey  his  summons, 
and  that  the  House  would  support  them  in  their  refusal. 
What  course  would  then  have  been  left  to  him?  Unless 
Ave  suppose  that  he  Avent  on  this  expedition  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  making  himself  ridiculous,  we  must  believe  that  he 
Avould  haA^e  had  recourse  to  force.  There  would  haA^e  been 
a scuffie  ; and  it  might  not,  under  such  circumstances,  have 
been  in  his  power,  even  if  it  had  been  in  his  inclination,  to 


840 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WUITINQS* 


prevent  a scufiie  from  ending  in  a massacre.  Fortunately 
for  his  fame,  unfortunately  j)erliaj)S  for  Avliat  lie  prized  far 
more,  tlie  interests  of  his  liatred  and  liis  ambition,  the  affair 
ended  differently.  The  birds,  as  he  said,  were  flown,  and 
his  plan  was  disconcerted.  Posterity  is  not  extreme  to  mark 
ftbortive  crimes  ; and  thus  the  King’s  advocates  have  found 
it  easy  to  represent  a step  which,  but  for  a trivial  accident, 
might  have  lilled  England  with  mourning  and  dismay,  as  a 
mere  error  of  judgment,  wild  and  foolish,  but  perfectly  in- 
nocent. Such  was  not,  however,  at  the  time,  the  oj^inion 
of  any  party.  The  most  zealous  Royalists  were  so  much 
disgusted  and  ashamed  that  they  suspended  their  opposition 
to  the  popular  party,  and,  silently  at  least,  concurred  in 
measures  of  precaution  so  strong  as  almost  to  amount  to 
resistance. 

From  that  day,  whatever  of  confidence  and  loyal  attach- 
ment had  survived  the  misrule  of  seventeen  years  was,  in 
the  great  body  of  the  people,  extinguished,  and  extinguished 
for  ever.  As  soon  as  the  outrage  had  failed,  the  hypocrisy 
recommenced.  Down  to  the  very  eve  of  this  flagitious  at- 
tempt, Charles  had  been  talking  of  his  respect  for  the  privi- 
leges of  Parliament  and  the  liberties  of  his  people.  He 
began  again  in  the  same  style  on  the  morrow ; but  it  was  too 
late.  To  trust  him  now  would  have  been,  not  moderation, 
but  insanity.  What  common  security  would  suffice  against 
a Prince  who  was  evidently  watching  his  season  with  that 
cold  and  patient  hatred  which,  in  the  long  run,  tires  out 
every  other  passion  ? 

It  is  certainly  from  no  admiration  of  Charles  that  Mr. 
Hallam  disapproves  of  the  conduct  of  the  Houses  in  resort- 
ing to  arms.  But  he  thinks  that  any  attempt  on  the  part  of 
that  Prince  to  establish  a despotism  would  have  been  as 
strongly  opposed  by  his  adherents  as  by  his  enemies,  and 
that  therefore  the  Constitution  might  be  considered  as  out 
of  danger,  or,  at  least,  that  it  had  more  to  apprehend  from 
the  war  than  from  the  King.  On  this  subject  Mr.  Hallam 
dilates  at  length,  and  with  conspicuous  ability.  We  will 
offer  a few  considerations  which  lead  us  to  incline  to  a dif- 
erent  opinion. 

The  Constitution  of  England  was  only  one  of  a large 
family.  In  all  the  monarchies  of  Western  Europe,  during 
the  middle  ages,  there  existed  restraints  on  the  royal  author- 
ity, fundamental  laws,  and  renresentative  assemblies.  In 
the  fifteenth  century,  me  government  of  Castile  seems  to 


JSALLA^. 


S41 


have  t^ecn  as  free  as  that  of  our  own  country.  That  of  Ar- 
ragon  Avas  beyond  all  question  more  so.  In  France,  the 
sovereign  was  more  absolute.  Yet,  even  in  France,  the 
States-General  alone  could  constitutionally  impose  taxes; 
and,  at  the  very  time  when  the  authority  of  those  assemblies 
was  beginning  to  languish,  the  Parliament  of  Paris  received 
such  an  accession  of  strength  as  enabled  it,  in  some  measure, 
to  perform  the  functions  of  a legislative  assembly.  Sweden 
and  Denmark  had  constitutions  of  a similar  description. 

Let  us  overleap  two  or  three  hundred  years,  and  com 
template  Europe  at  the  commencement  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Every  free  constitution,  save  one,  had  gone  down. 
That  of  England  had  weathered  the  danger,  and  was  riding 
in  full  security.  In  Denmark  and  SAveden,  the  kings  had 
availed  themselves  of  the  disputes  Avhich  raged  between  the 
nobles  and  the  commons,  to  unite  all  the  powers  of  gOA^ern- 
ment  in  their  oavu  hands.  In  France  the  institution  of  the 
States  was  only  mentioned  by  laAvyers  as  a part  of  the  an- 
cient theory  of  their  goA^ernment.  It  slept  a deep  sleep^ 
destined  to  be  broken  by  a tremendous  waking.  No  person 
remembered  the  sit*  igs  of  the  three  orders,  or  expected 
ever  to  see  them  renewed.  Louis  the  Fourteenth  had  im- 
posed on  his  parliament  a patient  silence  of  sixty  years. 
His  grandson,  after  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession,  as- 
similated the  constitution  of  Arragon  to  that  of  Castile,  and 
extinguished  the  las^  feeble  remains  of  liberty  in  the  Penin- 
sula. In  England,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Parliament  was 
infinitely  more  poAverful  than  it  had  ever  been.  Not  only 
was  its  legislative  authority  fully  established ; but  its  right 
to  interfere,  by  adAuce  almost  equivalent  to  command,  in 
every  department  of  the  executive  government,  was  recog- 
nized. The  appointment  of  ministers,  the  relations  with 
foreign  powers,  the  conduct  of  a war  or  a negotiation,  de- 
pended less  on  the  pleasure  of  the  Prince  than  on  that  ol 
the  tAvo  Houses. 

What  then  made  us  to  differ?  Why  was  it  that,  in  that 
epidemic  malady  of  constitutions,  ours  escaped  the  destroy- 
ing influence  ; or  rather  that,  at  the  very  crisis  of  the  disease 
a favorable  turn  took  place  in  England,  and  in  England 
alone  ? It  was  not  surely  without  a cause  that  so  many 
kindred  systems  of  government,  having  flourished  togethei 
so  long,  languished  and  expired  at  almost  the  same  time. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  say,  that  flu  progress  of  civilization 
is  favorable  to  liberty.  The  maxim,  though  in  some  sense 


342  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wtiitinos. 

true,  must  bo  limited  by  many  qualifications  and  exceptions. 
Wherever  a ]>oor  and  rude  nation,  in  wliicli  the  form  of 
government  is  a limited  monarchy,  receives  a great  accession 
of  wealth  and  knovvdedge,  it  is  in  imminent  danger  of  falling 
under  arbitrary  power. 

In  such  a state  of  society  as  that  which  existed  all  over 
Eiirojie  during  tlie  middle  ages,  very  slight  checks  sufficed 
to  keep  the  sovereign  in  order.  Ilis  means  of  conmption 
and  intimidation  were  A^ery  scanty.  He  had  little  money, 
little  patronage,  no  military  establishment.  Ilis  armies  re- 
sembled juries.  They  Avere  draAvn  out  of  the  mass  of  the 
people  : they  soon  returned  to  it  again  : and  the  character 
Avhich  Avas  habitual,  prevailed  over  that  which  was  occa- 
sional. A campaign  of  forty  days  Avas  too  short,  the  discipline 
of  a national  militia  too  lax,  to  efface  from  their  minds  the 
feelings  of  chdl  life.  As  they  carried  to  the  camp  tlie  sen- 
timents and  interests  of  the  farm  and  the  shop,  so  they 
carried  back  to  the  farm  and  the  shop  the  military  accom- 
plishments Avhich  they  had  acquired  in  the  camp.  At  homo 
the  soldier  learned  how  to  a alue  his  rights,  abroad  how  to 
defend  them. 

Such  a military  force  as  this  was  a far  stronger  restraint 
on  the  regal  poAver  than  any  legislative  assembly.  The 
army,  noAV  the  most  formidable  instrument  of  the  executive 
power,  Avas  then  the  most  formidable  check  on  that  power. 
Resistance  to  an  established  government,  in  modern  times 
so  difficult  and  perilous  an  enterprise,  was,  in  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  the  simplest  and  easiest  matter  in 
the  world.  Indeed,  it  was  far  too  simple  and  easy.  An  in- 
surrection was  got  up  then  almost  as  easily  as  a petition  is 
got  up  now.  In  a popular  cause,  or  even  in  an  unpopular 
cause  favored  by  a few  great  nobles,  a force  of  ten  thousand 
armed  men  was  raised  in  a week.  If  the  King  Avere,  like 
oui  EdAvard  the  Second  and  Richard  the  Second,  generally 
odious,  he  could  not  procure  a single  bow  or  halbert.  He 
feL  at  once  and  without  an  effort.  In  such  times  a sover- 
eign like  Louis  the  Fifteenth  or  the  Emperor  Paul,  would 
have  been  pulled  down  before  his  misgovernment  had  lasted 
for  a month.  We  find  that  all  the  fame  and  influence  of 
our  Edward  the  Third  could  not  save  his  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour from  the  effects  of  the  public  hatred. 

Hume  and  many  other  writers  have  hastily  concluded 
that,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  the  English  Parliament  was 
altogether  servile,  because  it  recognized,  without  opposition, 


HALLAM 


343 


every  successful  usurper.  That  it  was  not  servile  its  con- 
duct on  many  occasions  of  inferior  importance  is  sufficient 
to  prove.  But  surely  it  was  not  strange  that  the  majority 
of  the  nobles,  and  of  the  deputies  chosen  by  the  commons, 
should  approve  of  revolutions  which  tlic  nobles  and  com- 
mons had  effected.  The  Parliament  did  not  blindly  follow 
the  event  of  war,  but  participated  in  those  changes  of  pub- 
lic sentiment  on  which  the  war  depended.  The  legal  check 
was  secondary  and  auxiliary  to  that  which  the  nation  lield 
in  its  own  hands.  There  have  always  been  monarchies  in 
Asia,  in  which  the  royal  authority  has  been  tempered  by 
fundamental  laws,  though  no  legislative  body  exists  to  watch 
over  them.  The  guarantee  is  the  opinion  of  a community 
of  which  every  individual  is  a soldier.  Thus,  the  king  of 
Cabul,  as  Mr.  Elphinstone  informs  us,  cannot  augment  the 
land  revenue,  or  interfere  with  the  jurisdiction  of  the  ordi- 
nary tribunals. 

In  the  European  kingdoms  of  this  description  there  were 
representative  assembles.  But  it  was  not  necessary  that 
those  assemblies  should  meet  very  frequently,  that  they 
should  interfere  with  all  the  operations  of  the  executive 
government,  that  they  should  watch  with  jealousy,  and  re- 
sent with  prompt  indignation,  every  violation  of  the  laws 
which  the  sovereign  might  commit.  They  were  so 
strong  that  they  might  safely  be  careless.  He  was  so  feeble 
that  he  might  safely  be  suffered  to  encroach.  If  he  ventured 
too  far,  chastisement  and  ruin  were  at  hand.  In  fact,  the 
people  generally  suffered  more  from  his  weakness  than  from 
his  authority.  The  tyranny  of  wealthy  and  powerful  sub- 
jects was  the  characteristic  evil  of  the  times.  The  royal 
prerogatives  were  not  even  sufficient  for  the  defence  of 
property  and  the  maintenance  of  police. 

The  progress  of  civilization  introduced  a great  change. 
War  became  a science,  and,  as  a necessary  consequence,  a 
trade.  The  great  body  of  the  people  grew  every  day  more 
reluctant  to  undergo  the  inconveniences  of  military  service, 
and  better  able  to  pay  others  for  undergoing  them.  A new 
class  of  men,  therefore,  dependent  on  the  Crown  alone, 
natural  enemies  of  those  popular  rights  which  are  to  them 
as  the  dew  to  the  fleece  of  Gideon,  slaves  among  freemen, 
freemen  among  slaves,  grew  into  importance.  That  physi- 
cal force  which,  in  the  dark  ages,  had  belonged  to  the  no- 
bles and  the  commons,  and  had,  far  more  than  any  charter 
or  any  assembly,  been  the  safeguard  of  their  privileges, 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


was  transferred  entire  to  tlie  King.  Monarchy  gained  in  two 
ways.  Tlie  sovereign  was  strengthened,  the  subjects  weak- 
ened. The  great  mass  of  the  ])opulation,  destitute  of  all 
military  discipline  and  organization,  ceased  to  exercise  any 
influence  by  force  on  political  transactions.  There  have, 
indeed,  during  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years,  been  many 
popular  insurrections  in  Euroi)c:  but  all  have  failed,  except 
those  in  which  the  regular  army  has  been  induced  to  join 
the  disaffected. 

Those  legal  checks  which,  while  the  sovereign  remained 
dependent  on  his  subjects,  had  been  adequate  to  the  pur- 
pose for  which  they  were  designed,  were  now  found  want- 
ing. The  dikes  which  had  been  sufficient  while  the  waters 
were  low  were  not  high  enough  to  keep  out  the  spring-tide. 
The  deluge  passed  over  them;  and,  according  to  the  exquis- 
ite illustration  of  Butler,  the  formal  boundaries  wdiich  had 
excluded  it,  now  held  it  in.  The  old  constitutions  fared 
like  the  old  shields  and  coats  of  mail.  They  w^ere  the  de- 
fences of  a rude  age  : and  they  did  well  enough  against  the 
weapons  of  a rude  age.  But  new  and  more  formidable 
means  of  destruction  were  invented.  The  ancient  panoply 
became  useless ; and  it  was  thrown  aside  to  rust  in  lumber- 
rooms,  or  exhibited  only  as  part  of  an  idle  pageant. 

Thus  absolute  monarchy  was  established  on  the  Con- 
tinent. England  escaped  ; but  si. 3 escaped  very  narrowly. 
Happily  our  insular  situation,  and  the  pacific  policy  of 
James,  rendered  standing  armies  unnecessary  here,  till  they 
had  been  for  some  time  kept  up  in  the  neighboring  king- 
doms. Our  public  men  had  therefore  an  opportunity  of 
watching  the  effects  produced  by  this  momentous  change 
on  governments  Tvhicli  bore  a close  analogy  to  that  estab- 
lished in  England.  Everywhere  they  saw  the  power  of 
the  monarch  increasing,  the  resistance  of  assemblies  which 
were  no  longer  supported  by  a national  force  gradually  be- 
coming more  and  more  feeble,  and  at  length  altogether 
ceasing.  The  friends  and  the  enemies  of  liberty  perceived 
with  equal  clearness  the  causes  of  this  general  decay.  It  is 
the  favorite  theme  of  Strafford.  ETe  advises  the  King  to 
procure  from  the  Judges  a recognition  of  his  right  to  raise 
an  army  at  his  pleasure.  ‘‘  This  place  well  fortified,”  says 
he,  “ forever  vindicates  the  monarchy  at  home  from  under 
the  conditions  and  restraints  of  subjects.”  We  firmly  be- 
lieve that  he  was  in  the  right.  Nay  ; we  believe  that,  even 
if  no  deliberate  scheme  of  arbitrary  government  had  been 


HALLAM. 


345 


form^^d  by  the  sovereign  and  liis  ministers,  tlicrc  was  great 
reason  to  a])])reliend  a natural  extinction  of  the  Constitution. 
If,  for  example,  Charles  had  played  tlie  part  of  Gustavufe 
Adolidiiis,  if  he  had  carried  on  a popular  war  for  the  defence 
of  the  Protestant  cause  in  Germany,  if  he  had  gratified  the 
national  pride  by  a series  of  victories,  if  he  had  formq^I  an 
army  of  forty  or  fifty  thousand  devoted  soldiers,  we  do  not 
see  wliat  chance  the  nation  would  have  had  of  escaping 
from  despotism.  The  Judges  would  have  given  as  strong  a 
decision  in  favor  of  camp-money  as  they  gave  in  favor  of 
ship-money.  If  they  had  been  scrupulous,  it  would  havo 
made  little  difference.  An  individual  who  resisted  would 
have  been  treated  as  Charles  treated  Eliot,  and  as  Strafford 
wished  to  treat  Hampden.  The  Parliament  might  have 
been  summoned  once  in  twenty  years,  to  congratulate  a 
King  on  his  accession,  or  to  give  solemnity  to  some  great 
measure  of  state.  Such  had  been  the  fate  of  legislative 
assemblies  as  powerful,  as  much  respected,  as  high-spirited, 
as  the  English  Lords  and  Commons. 

The  two  Houses,  surrounded  by  the  ruins  of  so  many  free 
constitutions  overthrown  or  sapped  by  the  new  military  sys- 
tem, were  required  to  intrust  the  command  of  an  army  and 
the  con  duct  of  the  Irish  war  to  a King  who  had  proposed  to 
himself  the  destruction  of  liberty  as  the  great  end  of  his  pol- 
icy. We  are  decidedly  of  opinion  that  it  would  have  been 
fatal  to  comply.  Many  of  those  who  took  the  side  of  the 
King  on  this  question  would  have  cursed  their  own  loyalty, 
if  they  had  seen  him  return  from  war  at  the  head  of  twenty 
thousand  troops,  accustomed  to  carnage  and  free  quarters  in 
Ireland. 

We  think,  with  Mr.  Ilallam,  that  many  of  the  Royalist 
nobility  and  gentry  were  true  friends  to  the  Constitution,  and 
that,  but  for  the  solemn  protestations  by  which  the  King  bound 
liimself  to  govern  according  to  the  law  for  the  future,  they 
never  would  have  Joined  his  standard.  But  surely  they  un- 
derrated the  public  danger.  Falkland  is  commonly  selected 
as  the  most  respectable  specimen  of  thic  class.  He  was 
.iideed  a man  of  great  talents  and  of  great  virtues,  but,  we 
apprehend,  infinitely  too  fastidious  for  public  life.  He  did 
not  perceive  that,  in  sucli  times  as  those  on  which  his  lot  had 
fallen,  the  duty  of  a state;::uaii  is  to  choose  the  better  cause 
and  to  stand  by  it,  in  spite  of  those  excesses  by  which  every 
cause,  however  good  in  itself,  will  be  disgraced.  The  present 
evil  always  seemed  to  him  the  worst.  He  was  always  going 


846 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


backward  and  forward  : but  it  sliould  be  remembered  to  liis 
honor  tliat  it  was  always  from  the  stronger  to  tlie  weaker 
side  lliat  lie  deserted.  While  Charles  was.  op])ressing  the 
people,  Falkland  was  a resolute  champion  of  liberty.  He 
attacked  Strafford.  He  even  concurred  in  strong  measures 
against  Episcopacy.  But  the  violence  of  his  party  annoyed 
liiuf,  and  drove  him  to  the  other  party,  to  be  equally  annoyed 
there.  Dreading  the  success  of  the  cause  which  he  had 
espoused,  disgusted  by  the  courtiers  of  Oxford,  as  he  had 
been  disgusted  by  the  patriots  of  Westminster,  yet  bound 
by  honor  not  to  abandon  the  cause  for  which  he  was  in 
arms?  he  pined  away,  ne^^lected  liis  person,  went  about 
moaning  for  peace,  and  at  last  rushed  desperately  on  death, 
as  the  best  refuge  in  such  miserable  times.  If  he  had  lived 
through  the  scenes  that  followed,  we  have  little  doubt  that 
he  would  have  condemned  himself  to  share  the  exile  and 
beggary  of  the  royal  family ; that  ho  would  then  have  re- 
turned to  oppose  all  their  measures  ; that  he  would  have  been 
sent  to  the  Tower  by  the  Commons  as  a stiller  of  the  Popish 
Plot,  and  by  the  King  as  an  accomplice  in  the  Rye-House 
Plot ; and  that,  if  he  had  escaped  being  hanged,  first  by 
Scroggs,  and  then  by  Jefferies,  lie  would,  after  manfully  op- 
posing James  the  Second  through  years  of  tyranny,  have 
been  seized  with  a fit  of  compassion  at  the  very  moment  of 
the  Revolution,  have  voted  for  a regency,  and  died  a non- 
juror. 

We  do  not  dispute  that  the  royal  party  contained  many 
excellent  men  and  excellent  citizens.  But  this  we  say,  that 
they  did  not  discern  tliose  times.  The  peculiar  glory  of  the 
Houses  of  Parliament  is  that,  in  the  great  plague  and  mortal- 
ity of  constitutions,  they  took  their  stand  between  the  living 
and  the  dead.  At  the  very  crisis  of  our  destiny,  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  fate  which  had  passed  on  every  other  nation 
was  about  to  pass  on  England,  they  arrested  the  danger. 

Those  who  conceive  that  the  parliamentary  leaders  were 
desirous  merely  to  maintain  the  old  constitution,  and  those 
who  rejiresent  them  as  conspiring  to  subvert  it,  are  equally 
in  error.  The  old  constitution,  as  we  have  attempted  to 
sjiow,  could  not  be  maintained.  The  progress  of  time,  the 
increase  of  wealth,  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  great 
change  in  the  European  system  of  war,  rendered  it  impos- 
sible that  any  of  the  monarchies  of  the  middle  ages  should 
continue  to  exist  on  the  old  footing.  The  prerogative  of  the 
crown  was  constantly  advancing.  If  the  privileges  of  the 


HALLAM. 


347 


peo])]o  were  to  remain  absolutely  stationary,  they  would 
relatively  retrograde.  The  monarchical  and  democraticai 
parts  of  the  government  were  placed  in  a situation  not 
unlike  that  of  the  two  brothers  in  the  Fairy  Queen,  one  of 
whom  saw  the  soil  of  his  inheritance  daily  washed  away  by 
the  tide  and  joined  to  that  of  his  rival.  The  portions  had 
ut  £rst  been  fairly  meted  out.  By  a natural  and  constant 
Uaiisfer,  the  one  had  been  extended  ; the  other  had  dwindled 
to  nothing.  A new  partition,  or  a compensation,  was  ne- 
r, cssary  to  restore  the  original  equality. 

It  was  now,  therefore,  absolutely  necessary  to  violate  the 
formal  part  of  the  constitution,  in  order  to  preserve  its  spirit 
This  miglit  have  been  done,  as  it  was  done  at  the  Revolution, 
by  expelling  the  reigning  family,  and  calling  to  the  throne 
princes  who,  relying  solely  on  an  elective  title,  would  find 
it  necessary  to  respect  the  privileges  and  follow  the  advice 
of  the  assemblies  to  which  they  owed  everything,  to  pass 
every  bill  which  the  Legislature  strongly  pressed  upon  them, 
and  to  fill  the  offices  of  state  with  men  in  whom  the  Legislature 
confided.  But,  as  the  two  Houses  did  not  choose  to  change 
the  dynasty,  it  was  necessary  that  they  should  do  directly 
what  at  the  Revolution  was  done  indirectly.  Nothing  is 
more  usual  than  to  hear  it  said  that,  if  the  Houses  had  con- 
tented themselves  with  making  such  a reform  in  the  govern- 
ment under  Charles  as  was  afterwards  made  under  William, 
they  would  have  had  the  highest  claim  to  national  gratitude ; 
and  that  in  their  violence  they  overshot  the  mark.  But  how 
was  it  possible  to  make  such  a settlement  under  Charles? 
Charles  was  not,  like  William  and  the  princes  of  the  Hano- 
verian line,  bound  by  community  of  interests  and  dangers 
to  the  Parliament.  It  was  therefore  necessary  that  he  should 
be  bound  by  treaty  and  statute. 

Mr.  Hallam  reprobates,  in  language  which  has  a little 
surprised  us,  the  nineteen  propositions  into  which  the  Par- 
liament digested  its  scheme.  Is  it  possible  to  doubt  that,  if 
James  the  Second  had  remained  in  the  island,  and  had  been 
Buffered,  as  he  probably  would  in  that  case  have  been  suffered, 
to  keep  his  crown,  conditions  to  the  full  as  hard  would  have 
been  imposed  on  him  ? On  the  other  hand,  we  fully  admit 
that,  if  the  Long  Parliament  had  pronounced  the  departure 
of  Charles  from  London  an  abdication,  and  had  called  Essex 
or  Northurnberland  to  the  throne,  the  new  prince  might 
■ have  safely  been  suffered  t-o  reign  without  such  restrictions. 
His  situation  would  have  b*'en  a sufficien'^  guarantee. 


348 


macaclay's  miscellaneous  writings. 


In  tlie  nineteen  propositions  we  sec  very  little  to  blame 
except  the  articles  against  the  Catholics.  These,  however, 
were  in  the  spirt  of  tliat  age  ; and  to  some  sturdy  churclimen 
in  our  own,  they  may  seem  to  palliate  even  the  good  which 
the  Long  Parliament  effected.  The  regulation  with  respect 
to  new  creations  of  Peers  is  the  only  other  article  about  which 
we  entertain  any  doubt.  One  of  the  propositions  is  that  the 
judges  shall  hold  their  offices  during  good  behavior.  To 
this  surely  no  exception  will  be  taken.  The  right  of  direct- 
ing the  education  and  mariage  of  the  princes  was  most  prop- 
erly claimed  by  the  Parliament,  on  the  same  ground  on  which, 
after  the  Revolution,  it  was  enacted,  that  no  king,  on  pain 
of  forfeting  his  throne,  should  espouse  a Papist.  Unless  we 
condemn  the  statesmen  of  the  Revolution,  who  conceived 
that  England  could  not  safely  be  governed  by  a sovereign 
married  to  a Catholic  queen,  we  can  scarcely  condemn  the 
Long  Parliament  because,  having  a sovereign  so  situated, 
they  thought  it  necessary  to  place  him  under  strict  restraints. 
The  influence  of  Henrietta  Maria  had  already  been  deeply 
felt  in  political  affairs.  In  the  regulation  of  her  family,  in 
the  education  and  marriage  of  her  children,  it  was  still  more 
likely  to  be  felt.  There  might  be  another  Catholic  queen  ; 
possibly,  a Catholic  king.  Little  as  we  are  disposed  to  join 
in  the  vulgar  clamor  on  this  subject,  we  think  that  such  an 
event  ought  to  be,  if  possible,  averted  ; and  this  could  only 
be  done,  if  Charles  was  to  be  left  on  the  throne,  by  placing  his 
domestic  arrangements  under  the  control  of  Parliament. 

A veto  on  the  appointment  of  ministers  was  demanded. 
But  this  veto  Parliament  has  virtually  possessed  ever  since 
the  Revolution.  It  is  no  doubt  very  far  better  that  this 
power  of  the  Legislature  should  be  exercised,  when  any  great 
occasion  calls  for  interference,  than  that  «at  every  change 
the  Commons  should  have  to  signify  their  approbation  or 
disapprobation  in  form.  But,  unless  a new  family  had  been 
placed  on  the  throne,  we  do  not  see  how  this  power  could 
have  been  exercised  as  it  is  now  exercised.  We  again  re- 
peat, that  no  restraints  which  could  be  imposed  on  the  princes 
who  reigned  after  the  Revolution  could  have  added  to  the 
security  which  their  title  afforded.  They  were  compelled 
to  court  their  parliaments.  But  from  Charles  nothing  was 
to  be  expected  which  was  not  set  down  in  the  bond. 

It  was  not  stipulated  that  the  King  should  give  up  his 
negative  on  acts  of  Parlianent.  But  the  Commons  had  cer- 
tainly shown  a strong  disposition  to  exact  this  security  also. 


HALL  AM. 


849 


“ Such  a doctrine,”  says  Mr.  ITallara,  “ was  in  this  country 
as  repugnant  to  the  whole  history  of  our  laws,  as  it  was 
incompatible  with  the  subsistence  of  the  monarchy  in  any 
thing  more  than  a nominal  pre-eminence.”  Now  this  article 
has  been  as  completely  carried  into  effect  by  the  Revolution 
as  if  it  nad  been  formally  inserted  in  the  Bill  of  Rights  and 
the  Act  of  Settlement.  We  are  surprised,  we  confess,  that 
Mr.  Hallam  should  attach  so  much  importance  to  a preroga- 
tive which  has  not  been  exercised  for  a hundred  and  thirty 
years,  which  probably  will  never  be  exercised  again,  and 
which  can  scarcely,  in  any  conceivable  case,  be  exercised 
for  a salutary  purpose. 

But  the  great  security,  the  security  without  which  eveiy 
other  Tvould  have  been  insufficient,  was  the  power  of  the 
sword.  This  both  parties  thoroughly  understood.  The 
Parliament  insisted  on  having  the  command  of  the  militia 
and  the  direction  of  the  Irish  war.  ‘‘By  God,  not  for  an 
hour ! ” exclaimed  the  King.  “ Keep  the  militia,”  said 
the  Queen,  after  the  defeat  of  the  royal  party  : “ Keep  the 
militia ; that  will  bring  back  everything.”  That,  by  the 
old  constitution,  no  military  authority  was  lodged  in  the 
Parliament,  Mr.  Hallam  has  clearly  shown.  That  it  is  a 
species  of  authority  which  ought  not  to  be  permanently 
lodged  in  large  and  divided  assemblies,  must,  we  think,  in 
fairness  be  conceded.  Opposition,  publicity,  long  discus- 
sion, frequent  compromises ; these  are  the  characters  of 
the  proceedings  of  such  assemblies.  Unity,  secrecy,  deci- 
sion, are  the  qualities  which  military  arrangements  require. 
There  were,  therefore,  serious  objections  to  the  proposition 
of  the  Houses  on  this  subject.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
trust  such  a king,  at  such  a crisis,  with  the  very  weapon 
which,  in  hands  less  dangerous,  had  destroyed  so  many  free 
constitutions,  would  have  been  the  extreme  of  rashness. 
The  jealousy  with  which  the  oligarchy  of  Venice  and  the 
States  of  Holland  regarded  their  generals  and  arniies  in 
duced  them  perpetually  to  interfere  in  matters  of  which 
they  were  incompetent  to  judge.  This  policy  secured  them 
against  military  usurpation,  but  placed  them  under  great 
disadvantages  in  war.  The  uncontrolled  power  which  the 
King  of  France  exercised  over  his  troops  enabled  him  to 
conquer  his  enemies,  but  enabled  him  also  to  oppress  his 
people.  Was  there  any  intermediate  course?  None,  we 
confess,  altogether  free  from  objection.  But  on  the  whole, 
conceive  that  the  best  measure  w - uld  have  been  that 


850 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  ^vkitings. 


wliicli  the  ParlijiTucnt  over  and  over  proposed,  namely,  that 
for  a limited  time  the  j)Ower  of  the  sword  should  be  left  to 
the  two  Houses,  and  that  it  should  revert  to  the  Crown 
when  the  constitution  should  be  firmly  established,  and  when 
the  new  securities  of  freedom  should  be  so  far  strengthened 
by  prescriptioo  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  employ  even  a 
standing  army  for  the  purpose  of  subverting  them. 

Mr.  Hallam  thinks  that  the  disjmte  might  easily  have 
been  compromised,  by  enacting  that  the  King  should  have 
no  power  to  keep  a standing  army  on  foot  without  the  eon- 
sent  of  Parliament.  He  reasons  as  if  the  question  had  been 
merely  theoretical,  and  as  if  at  that  time  no  army  had  been 
wanted.  “The  kingdom,”  he  says,  “might  have  well  dis- 
pensed, in  that  age,  wdth  any  military  organization.”  Now, 
we  think  that  Mr.  Hallam  overlooks  the  most  important 
circumstances  in  the  whole  case.  Ireland  was  actually  in 
rebellion ; and  a great  expedition  would  obviously  be  ne- 
cessary to  reduce  that  kingdom  to  obedience.  The  Houses 
had  therefore  to  consider  not  an  abstract  question  of  law, 
but  an  urgent  practical  question,  directly  involving  the 
safety  of  the  state.  They  had  to  consider  the  expediency 
of  immediately  giving  a great  army  to  a King  who  was  at 
least  as  desirous  to  put  down  the  Parliament  cf  England  as 
to  conquer  the  insurgents  of  Ireland. 

Of  course  Ave  do  not  mean  to  defend  all  the  measures  of 
the  Houses.  Far  from  it.  There  never  was  a perfect  man. 
It  w^ould,  therefore,  be  the  height  of  absurdity  to  expect  a 
perfect  party  or  a perfect  assembly.  For  large  bodies  are 
far  more  likely  to  err  than  individuals.  The  passions  are 
inflamed  by  sympathy ; the  fear  of  punishment  and  the 
sense  of  shame  are  diminished  by  partition.  Every  day  w^e 
see  men  do  for  their  faction  what  they  would  die  rather  than 
do  for  themselves. 

Scarcely  any  private  quarrel  ever  happens,  in  AAffiich  the 
right  and  wrong  ai-e  so  exquisitely  divided  that  all  the  right 
lies  on  one  side,  and  all  the.  Avrong  on  the  other.  But  here 
was  a schism  which  separated  a great  nation  into  tAvo  j^arties. 
Of  these  parties,  each  was  composed  of  smaller  parties. 
Each  contained  many  members,  who  differed  far  less  from 
their  moderate  opponents  than  from  their  Auolent  allies. 
Each  reckoned  among  its  supporters  many  Avho  Av^ere  deter- 
mined in  their  choice  by  some  accident  of  birth,  of  connec- 
tion, or  of  local  situation.  Each  of  them  attracted  to  itself 
in  multitudes  those  fierce  and  turbid  spirits,  to  whom  the 


HALLAM. 


351 


clouds  and  whirlwinds  of  the  political  hurricane  are  the 
tttmos})liere  of  life.  A party,  like  a camp,  lias  its  sutlers  and 
camp-followers,  as  well  as  its  soldiers.  In  its  progress  it 
collects  round  it  a vast  retinue,  composed  of  people  who 
thrive  by  its  custom  or  are  amused  by  its  display,  who  may 
be  sometimes  reckoned,  in  an  ostentatious  enumeration,  as 
forming  a ])art  of  it,  but  who  give  no  aid  to  its  operations, 
and  take  but  a languid  interest  in  its  success,  who  relax  its 
discipline  and  dishonor  its  flag  by  their  irregularities,  and 
who,  after  a disaster,  are  perfectly  ready  to  cut  the  throats 
and  rifle  the  baggage  of  their  companions. 

Thus  it  is  in  every  great  division;  and  thus  it  was  in  our 
CIA  il  Avar.  On  both  sides  there  Avas,  undoubtedly,  enough 
of  crime  and  enough  of  error  to  disgust  any  man  who  did 
not  reflect  that  the  whole  history  of  the  species  is  made  up 
of  little  except  crimes  and  errors.  Misanthropy  is  not  the 
temper  Avhich  qualifies  a man  to  act  in  great  affairs,  or  to 
judge  of  them. 

“ Of  the  Parliament,”  says  Mr.  Hallam,  ‘‘  it  may  be  said, 
I think,  Avith  not  greater  severity  than  truth,  that  scarce 
two  or  three  public  acts  of  justice,  humanity,  or  generosity, 
and  A^ery  feAV  of  political  Avisdom  or  courage,  are  recorded 
of  them,  from  their  quarrel  Avith  the  King,  to  their  expulsion 
by  CromAvell.”  Those  who  may  agree  Avith  us  in  the  opinion 
Avhich  we  haA^e  expressed  as  to  the  original  demands  of  the 
Parliament  Avill  scarcely  concur  in  this  strong  censure.  The 
propositions  Avhich  the  Houses  made  at  Oxford,  at  Uxbridge, 
and  at  NeAA^castle,  were  in  strict  accordance  Avith  these  de- 
mands. In  the  darkest  period  of  the  Avar,  they  showed  no 
disposition  to  concede  any  vital  pi-inciple.  In  the  fulness 
of  their  success,  they  sliOAved  no  disposition  to  encroach  be- 
yond these  limits.  In  this  respect  Ave  cannot  but  think  that 
they  showed  justice  and  generosity,  as  well  as  political  wis- 
dom and  courage. 

The  Parliament  Avas  certainly  far  from  faultless.  We 
fully  agree  with  Mr.  Hallam  in  reprobating  their  treatment 
of  Laud.  For  the  individual,  indeed,  Ave  entertain  a more 
unmitigated  contempt  than  for  any  other  character  in  our 
history.  The  fondness  Avith  Avhich  a portion  of  the  church 
regards  his  memory,  can  be  compared  only  to  that  perver- 
sity of  affection  which  sometimes  leads  a mother  to  select 
the  monster  or  the  idiot  of  the  family  as  the  object  of  her 
especial 'faA'or.  Mr.  Ilallrim  has  incidentally  obserA^ed,  that, 
in  the  correspondence  cf  Laud  Avith  Strafford,  there  are  no 


B52 


MACAUT,Ay’s  MISCELLANl!OUS  W^RIT^GS. 


indications  of  a sense  of  duty  towards  God  or  man.  The 
admirers  of  the  Archl)isl)op  liave,  in  consequence,  inflicted 
upon  tlie  public  a crowd  of  extracts  designed  to  ])rove  the 
contrary.  Now,  in  all  those  passages,  we  see  nothing  which 
a prelate  as  wicked  as  Pope  Alexander  or  Cardinal  Dubois 
might  not  liave  written.  Those  passages  indicate  no  sense 
of  duty  to  God  or  man,  but  simply  a strong  interest  in  tlie 

tirosperity  and  dignity  of  the  order  to  which  the  writer  be- 
onged ; an  interest  Avhich,  Avhen  kept  within  certain  limits, 
does  not  deserve  censure,  but  which  can  never  be  considered 
as  a virtue.  Laud  is  anxious  to  accommodate  satisfactorily 
the  disputes  in  the  University  of  Dublin.  lie  regrets  to 
hear  that  a church  is  used  as  a stable,  and  that  the  benefices 
of  Ireland  are  very  poor.  lie  is  desirous  that,  however 
small  a congregation  may  be,  service  should  be  regularly 
performed.  He  expresses  a wish  that  the  judges  of  the 
court  before  which  questions  of  tithe  arc  generally  brought 
should  be  selected  with  a view  to  the  interests  of  the  clergy. 
All  this  may  be  very  proper ; and  it  may  be  very  proper 
that  an  alderman  should  stand  up  for  the  tolls  of  his  borough, 
and  an  East  India  director  for  the  charter  of  liis  Company. 
But  it  is  ridiculous  to  say  that  these  things  indicate  piety 
and  benevolence.  No  })rimate,  though  he  w^ere  the  most 
abandoned  of  mankind,  could  wish  to  see  the  body,  with  the 
influence  of  wUich  his  own  influence  was  identical,  degraded 
in  the  public  estimation  by  internal  dissensions,  by  the  ruin- 
ous state  of  its  edifices,  and  by  the  slovenly  performance  of 
its  rites.  We  willingly  acknowledge  that  the  particular 
letters  in  question  have  very  little  harm  in  them ; a compli- 
ment wdiich  cannot  often  be  paid  either  to  the  writings  or 
to  the  actions  of  Laud. 

Bad  as  the  Archbishop  was,  however,  he  was  not  a traitor 
within  the  statute.  Nor  was  he  by  any  means  so  formidable 
as  to  be  a proper  subject  for  a retrospective  ordinance  of 
the  legislature.  His  mind  had  not  expansion  enough  to 
comprehend  a great  scheme,  good  or  bad.  His  oppressive 
acts  were  not,  like  those  of  the  Earl  of  Strafford,  parts  of 
an  extensive  system.  They  were  the  luxuries  in  which  a 
mean  and  irritable  disposition  indulges  itself  from  day  to 
day,  the  excesses  natural  to  a little  mind  in  a great  place. 
The  severest  punishment  which  the  tw^o  Houses  could  have 
inflicted  on  him  would  have  been  to  set  him  at  liberty  and 
send  liim  to  Oxford.  There  he  might  have  staid,  tortured  by 
his  ow  n diabolical  temper,  hungering  for  Puritans  to  pillory 


HAIXAM. 


853 


and  mangle,  plaguing  the  Cavaliers,  for  want  of  somebody 
else  to  plague,  with  his  ])eevishness  and  absurdity,  perform- 
ing grimaces  and  antics  in  the  cathedral,  continuing  that 
incomparable  diary,  which  we  never  see  without  forgetting 
the  vices  of  his  heart  in  the  imbecility  of  his  intellect,  minut- 
ing down  his  dreams,  counting  the  drops  of  blood  which  fell 
from  his  nose,  watching  the  direction  of  the  salt,  and  listen- 
ing for  the  note  of  the  screech-owls.  Contemptuous  mercy 
was  the  only  vengeance  which  it  became  the  Parliament  to 
take  on  such  a ridiculous  old  bigot. 

The  Houses,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  committed  great 
errors  in  the  conduct  of  the  war,  or  rather  one  great  error, 
which  brought  their  affairs  into  a condition  requiring  the 
most  perilous  expedients.  The  parliamentary  leaders  tof 
what  may  be  called  the  first  generation,  Essex,  Manchester, 
Northumberland,  Hollis,  even  Pym,  all  the  most  eminent 
men,  in  short,  Hampden  excepted,  were  inclined  to  half 
measures.  They  dreaded  a decisive  victory  almost  as  much 
as  a decisive  overthrow.  They  wished  to  bring  the  King 
into  a situation  which  might  render  it  necessary  for  him  to 
grant  their  just  and  wise  demands,  but  not  to  subvert  the 
constitution  or  to  change  the  dynasty.  They  were  afraid  of 
serving  the  purposes  of  those  fierce  and  determined  enemies 
of  monarchy,  who  now  began  to  show  themselves  in  the 
lower  ranks  of  the  party.  The  war  was,  therefore,  con- 
ducted in  a languid  and  inefficient  manner.  A resolute 
leader  might  have  brought  it  to  a close  in  a month.  At  the 
end  of  three  campaigns,  however,  the  event  was  still  dubi- 
ous ; and  that  it  had  not  been  decidedly  unfavorable  to  the 
cause  of  liberty  was  principally  owing  to  the  skill  and 
energy  which  the  more  violent  Koundheads  had  displayed 
in  subordinate  situations.  The  conduct  of  Fairfax  and 
Cromwell  at  Marston  had  exhibited  a remarkable  contrast 
to  that  of  Essex  at  Edgehill,  and  to  that  of  Waller  at  Lans- 
downe. 

If  there  be  any  truth  established  by  the  universal  expe- 
rience of  the  nations,  it  is  this,  that  to  cairy  the  spirit  of 
peace  into  war  is  a weak  and  cruel  policy c The  time  of 
negotiation  is  the  time  for  deliberation  and  delay.  But 
when  an  extreme  case  calls  for  that  remedy  which  is  in  its 
own  nature  most  violent,  and  which,  in  such  cases,  is  a rem- 
edy only  because  it  is  violent,  it  is  idle  to  think  of  miti- 
gating and  diluting.  Languid  war  can  do  nothing  which 
negotiation  or  submission  will  not  do  better  : and  to  act  on 
VoLo  I —23  — 


354  Macaulay’s  miscella^;(£0U8  writings. 

any  otlicr  ])rinci])lc  is,  not  to  save  blood  and  money,  Init  to 
squander  them. 

This  the  j)ar]ianientary  leaders  found.  The  third  year 
of  hostilities  was  drawing  to  a close  ; and  they  had  not  con- 
quered the  King.  They  liad  not  obtained  even  those  ad 
vantages  which  they  had  expected  from  a policy  obviously 
erroneous  in  a military  point  of  view.  They  had  wished  to 
husband  their  resources.  They  now  found  that  in  enterprises 
like  theirs,  parsimony  is  the  worst  profusion.  They  had 
hoped  to  effect  a reconciliation.  The  event  taught  them  that 
the  best  way  to  conciliate  is  to  bring  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion to  a speedy  termination.  By  their  moderation  many 
lives  and  much  property  had  been  wasted.  The  angry 
passions  which,  if  the  contest  had  been  shoi’t,  would  liave 
died  away  almost  as  soon  as  they  appeared,  had  fixed  them- 
selves in  the  form  of  deep  and  lasting  hatred.  A military 
caste  had  grown  up.  Those  who  had  been  induced  to  take 
up  arms  by  the  patriotic  feelings  of  citizens  had  begun  to 
entertain  the  j)rofessional  feelings  of  soldiers.  Above  all, 
the  leaders  of  the  party  had  forfeited  its  confidence.  If  they 
had,  by  their  valor  and  abilities,  gained  a complete  victory, 
their  influence  might  have  been  sufficient  to  prevent  their 
associates  from  abusing  it.  It  was  now  necessary  to  choose 
more  resolute  and  uncompromising  commanders.  Unhap- 
pily the  illustrious  man  who  alone  united  in  himself  all  the 
talents  and  virtues  which  the  crisis  required,  who  alone 
could  have  saved  his  country  from  the  present  dangers 
without  plunging  her  into  others,  who  alone  could  have 
united  all  the  friends  of  liberty  in  obedience  to  his  com- 
manding genius  and  his  A enerable  name,  was  no  more. 
Something  might  still  be  done.  The  Houses  might  still 
avert  the  worst  of  all  evils,  the  triumphant  return  of  an  im- 
])erious  and  unprincipled  master.  They  might  still  preserve 
London  from  all  the  horrors  of  rapine,  massacre,  and  lust. 
But  their  hopes  of  a victory  as  spotless  as  their  cause,  of  a 
reconciliation  which  might  knit  together  the  hearts  of  all 
honest  Englishmen  for  the  defence  of  the  public  good,  of 
durable  tranquillity,  of  temperate  freedom,  were  buried  in 
the  grave  of  Hampden. 

The  self-denying  ordinance  was  passed,  and  the  army 
was  remodelled.  These  measures  were  undoubtedly  full  of 
danger.  But  all  that  was  left  to  the  Parliament  was  to  take 
the  less  of  two  dangers.  And  we  think  that,  even  if  they 
could  have  accurately  foreseen  all  that  followed,  their  deci- 


UALLAM. 


355 


eion  ought  to  have  been  the  same.  Under  any  circumstances, 
we  should  have  preferred  Cromwell  to  Charles.  But  there 
could  be  no  comparison  between  Cromwell  and  Charles  vic- 
torious, Charles  restored,  Charles  enabled  to  feed  fat  all  the 
hungry  grudges  of  liis  smiling  rancor  and  his  cringing 
pride.  The  next  visit  of  his  Majesty  to  his  faithful  Com- 
mons would  liave  been  more  serious  than  that  with  which 
be  last  honored  them  ; more  serious  than  that  Avhich  their 
own  General  ]3aid  them  some  years  after  The  King  would 
scarce  have  been  content  with  praying  that  the  Lord  would 
deliver  him  from  Vane,  or  with  pulling  Marten  by  the  cloak. 
If,  by  fatal  mismanagement,  nothing  was  left  to  England 
but  a choice  of  tyrants,  the  last  tyrant  whom  she  should 
have  chosen  was  Charles. 

From  the  apprehension  of  this  worst  evil  the  Houses 
were  soon  delivered  by  their  new  leaders.  The  armies 
of  Charles  were  everywhere  routed,  his  fastnesses  stormed, 
his  party  humbled  and  subjugated.  The  King  himself  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Parliament ; and  both  the  King  and 
the  Parliament  soon  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  army.  The 
fate  of  both  the  captives  was  the  same.  Both  were  treated 
alternately  with  respect  and  with  insult-  At  length  the 
natural  life  of  one,  and  the  political  life  of  the  other,  were 
terminated  by  violence ; and  the  power  for  which  both  had 
struggled  was  united  in  a single  hand.  Men  naturally  sym- 
pathized with  the  calamities  of  individuals ; but  they  are 
inclined  to  look  on  a fallen  party  with  contempt  rather  than 
with  pity.  Thus  misfortune  turned  the  greatest  of  Parlia- 
ments into  the  despised  Rump,  and  the  worst  of  Kings  into 
the  Blessed  Martyr. 

Mr.  Hallam  decidedly  condemns  the  execution  of  Charles ; 
and  in  all  that  he  says  on  that  subject  we  heartily  agree. 
We  fully  concur  with  him  in  thinking  that  a great  social 
schism,  such  as  the  civil  war,  is  not  to  be  confounded  with 
an  ordinary  treason,  and  that  the  vanquished  ought  to  bo 
treated  according  to  the  rules,  not  of  municipal,  but  of  in«^ 
ternational  law.  In  this  case  the  distinction  is  of  the  less 
importance,  because  both  international  and  municipal  law 
Avere  in  favor  of  Charles.  He  was  a prisoner  of  war  by  the 
former,  a King  by  the  latter.  By  neither  was  he  a traitor. 
If  he  had  been  successful,  and  had  put  his  leading  opponents 
to  death,  he  would  have  deserved  severe  censure ; and  this 
without  reference  to  the  justice  or  injustice  of  his  cause. 
Vet  the  opponents  of  Charles,  it  must  be  admitted,  wer© 


856 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


technically  guilty  of  treason,  lie  might  have  sent  them  to 
the  scaffold  without  violating  any  established  principle  of 
jurisprudence.  lie  would  not  have  been  compelled  to  over- 
turn the  whole  constitution  in  order  to  reach  them.  Here 
his  own  case  differed  Avidely  from  theirs.  Not  only  was 
his  condemnation  in  itself  a measure  which  only  the  strong- 
est necessity  could  vindicate  ; but  it  could  not  be  procured 
without  taking  several  previous  stej)S,  every  one  of  Avhich 
would  have  required  the  strongest  necessity  to  vindicate  it. 
It  could  not  be  procured  without  dissolving  the  government 
by  military  force,  without  establishing  precedents  of  the 
most  dangerous  description,  without  creating  difficulties 
v/hich  the  next  ten  years  w^ere  spent  in  removing,  without 
pulling  down  institutions  Avhich  it  soon  became  necessary 
to  reconstruct,  and  setting  up  others  Avhich  almost  every 
man  was  soon  impatient  to  destroy.  It  Avas  necessary  to 
strike  the  House  of  Lords  out  of  the  constitution,  to  exclude 
members  of  the  House  of  Commons  by  force,  to  make  a new 
crime,  a new  tribunal,  a new  mode  of  procedure.  The  Avhole 
legislative  and  judicial  systems  were  trampled  doAvn  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  a single  head.  Not  only  those  parts  of 
the  constitution  which  the  republicans  were  desirous  to  de- 
stroy, but  those  which  they  wished  to  retain  and  exalt,  were 
deeply  injured  by  these  transactions.  High  Courts  of  Jus- 
tice began  to  usurp  the  functions  of  juries.  The  remaining 
delegates  of  the  people  Avere  soon  driven  from  their  seats  by 
the  same  military  violence  which  had  enabled  them  to  ex- 
clude their  colleagues. 

If  Charles  had  been  the  last  of  his  line,  there  would  haA^e 
been  an  intelligible  reason  for  putting  him  to  death.  But 
the  blow  Avhich  terminated  his  life  at  once  transferred  the 
allegiance  of  every  Royalist  to  an  heir,  and  an  heir  who  Avas 
at  liberty.  To  kill  the  indiAudual  was,  under  such  circum- 
stances, not  to  destroy,  but  to  release  the  King. 

We  detest  the  character  of  Charles ; but  a man  ought  not 
to  be  removed  by  a law  ex  post  facto  ^ even  constitutionally 
procured,  merely  because  he  is  detestable.  He  must  also  bo 
very  dangerous.  We  can  scarcely  conceive  that  any  dauger 
which  a state  can  apprehend  from  any  individual  could  jus- 
tify the  violent  measures  which  were  necessary  to  procure  a 
sentence  against  Charles.  But  in  fact  the  danger  amounted 
to  nothing.  There  was  indeed  danger  from  the  attachment 
of  a large  party  to  his  office.  But  this  danger  his  execution 
only  increased.  His  personal  influence  was  little  indeed- 


HALLAM. 


857 


He  liJid  lost  the  confidence  of  every  party.  Clmrchnien, 
Catholics,  Picsbyterians,  Independents,  his  eneinieL',  liis 
triends,  liis  tools,  English,  Scotch,  Irish,  all  divisions  and 
subdivisions  of  his  people  had  been  deceived  by  him.  His 
most  attached  councillors  turned  away  with  shame  and  an- 
gui:h  from  his  false  and  hollow  policy,  plot  interwined  witli 
plot,  mine  sprung  beneath  mine,  agents  disowned,  prom- 
ises evaded,  one  pledge  given  in  private,  another  in  public. 
“Oh,  Mr.  Secretary,”  says  Clarendon,  in  a letter  to  Nicholas, 
“ those  stratagems  have  given  me  more  sad  hours  than  all 
the  misfortunes  in  war  which  have  befallen  the  King,  and 
look  like  the  effects  of  God’s  anger  towards  us.” 

The  abilities  c Charles  were  not  formidable.  His  taste 
in  the  fine  arts  was  indeed  exquisite ; and  few  modern  sov- 
ereigns have  written  or  spoken  better.  But  he  was  not  fit 
for  active  life.  In  negotiation  he  was  always  trying  to  dupe 
others,  and  duping  only  himself.  As  a soldier,  he  was  feeble, 
dilatory,  and  miserably  wanting,  not  in  personal  courage,  but 
in  the  presence  of  mind  which  his  station  required.  His 
delay  at  Gloucester  saved  the  parliamentary  party  from  de- 
struction. At  Naseby,  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  fortune,  his 
want  of  self-possession  spread  a fatal  panic  through  his  army. 
The  story  which  Clarendon  tells  of  that  affair  reminds  us  of 
the  excuses  by  which  Bessus  and  Bobadil  explain  their  cud- 
gellings.  A Scotch  nobleman,  it  seems,  begged  the  King  not 
to  run  upon  his  death,  took  hold  of  his  bridle,  and  turned  his 
horse  round.  No  man  who  had  much  value  for  his  life  would 
have  tried  to  perform  the  some  friendly  office  on  that  day 
for  Oliver  Cromwell. 

One  thing,  and  one  alone,  could  make  Charles  dangerous, 
a violent  death.  His  tyranny  could  not  break  the  high  spirit 
of  the  English  people.  His  arms  could  not  conquer,  his  arts 
could  not  deceive  them  ; but  his  humiliation  and  his  execu- 
tion melted  them  into  a generous  compassion.  Men  who 
die  on  a scaffold  for  political  offences  almost  always  die  well. 
The  eyes  of  thousands  are  fixed  upon  them.  Enemies  and 
admires  are  watching  their  demeanor.  Every  tone  of  voice, 
every  change  of  color,  is  to  go  down  to  posterity.  Escape 
is  impossible.  Supplication  is  vain.  In  such  a situation, 
pride  and  despair  have  often  been  known  to  nerve  the  weak- 
est minds  with  fortitude  adequate  to  the  occasion.  Charles 
died  patiently  and  bravely  ; not  more  patiently  or  bravely,  in- 
deed, than  many  other  victims  of  political  rage  ; not  more 
patiently  or  bravely  than  his  own  Judges,  who  were  not  only 


358  macaoLay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

killed,  but  tortured ; or  tliaii  Vane,  who  liad  always  been  con- 
sidered as  a timid  man.  However,  the  King’s  conduct  dur- 
ing his  trial  and  at  his  execution  made  a j)rodigious  impres- 
sion. His  subjects  began  to  love  his  memory  as  heartily  as 
they  had  hated  his  person  ; and  posterity  has  estimated  hia 
character  from  his  death  rather  tlian  from  his  life. 

To  represent  Charles  as  a martyr  in  the  cause  of  Episcopacy 
is  absurd.  Those  who  put  him  to  death  cared  as  little  for 
the  Assembly  of  Divines  as  for  the  Convocation,  and  would, 
in  all  probability,  only  have  hated  him  the  more  if  he  had 
agreed  to  set  up  the  Presbyterian  discipline.  Indeed,  in  spite 
of  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Hallam,  we  are  inclined  to  think  that 
the  attachment  of  Charles  to  the  Church  of  England  was 
altogether  political.  Human  nature  is,  we  admit,  so  capri- 
cious that  there  may  be  a single  sensitive  point  in  a conscience 
which  everywhere  else  is  callous.  A man  without  truth  or 
humanity  may  have  some  strange  scruples  about  a trifle. 
There  was  one  devout  warrior  in  the  royal  cam|:>  whose  piety 
bore  a great  resemblance  to  that  which  is  ascribed  to  the 
King.  We  mean  Colonel  Turner.  That  gallant  Cavalier 
was  hanged,  after  the  Restoration,  for  a flagitious  burglary. 
At  the  gallows  he  told  tlie  crowd  that  his  mind  received  great 
consolation  from  one  reflection  : he  had  always  taken  off  his 
hat  when  he  went  into  a church.  The  character  of  Charles 
would  scarcely  rise  in  our  estimation,  if  we  believed  that  he 
was  pricked  in  conscience  after  the  manner  of  this  worthy 
loyalist,  and  that  violating  all  the  first  rules  of  Christian 
morality,  he  was  sincerely  scrupulous  about  church-govern- 
ment. But  we  acquit  him  of  such  weakness.  In  1641,  he 
deliberately  confirmed  the  Scotch  Declaration  which  stated 
that  the  government  of  the  church  by  archbishops  and  bishops 
was  contrary  to  the  word  of  God.  In  1645,  he  appears  to 
have  offered  to  set  up  Popery  in  Ireland.  That  a King  who 
had  established  the  Presbyterian  religion  in  one  kingdom, 
and  who  was  willing  to  establish  the  Catholic  religion  in 
another  should  have  insurmountable  scruples  about  the 
ecclesiastical  constitution  of  the  third,  is  altogether  incred- 
ible. He  himself  says  in  his  letters  that  he  looks  on 
Episcopacy  as  a stronger  support  of  monarchical  power  than 
even  the  army.  From  causes  which  we  have  already  con- 
sidered, tlie  Established  Church  had  been,  since  the  Refor- 
mation, the  great  bulwark  of  the  prerogative.  Charles  wished, 
therefore,  to  preserve  it.  He  thought  himself  necessary  both 
to  tho  Parliament  and  to  the  army.  He  did  not  foresee,  till 


HALLAM. 


35D 


too  late,  that,  by  paltering  with  tlie  Presbyterians,  he  should 
put  both  them  and  himself  into  tlie  ])ower  of  a fiercer  ond 
more  daring  party.  If  he  liad  foreseen  it,  we  sus])ect  that 
the  royal  blood  which  still  cries  to  Heaven,  every  thirtieth 
of  January,  for  judgments  only  to  be  averted  by  salt-fish  and 
egg-sauce,  would  never  have  been  shed.  One  who  had  swal- 
lowed tlie  Scotch  Declaration  would  scarcely  strain  at  the 
Covenant. 

The  death  of  Charles  and  the  strong  measures  which  led 
to  it  raised  Cromwell  to  a height  of  power  fatal  to  the  infant 
Commonwealth.  No  men  occupy  so  splendid  a place  in  his- 
tory as  those  who  have  founded  monarchies  on  the  ruins  of 
republican  institutions.  Their  glory,  if  not  of  the  purest,  is 
assuredly  of  the  most  seductive  and  dazzling  kind.  In  na- 
tions broken  to  the  curb,  in  nations  long  accustomed  to  be 
transferred  from  one  tyrant  to  another,  a man  without 
eminent  qualities  may  easily  gain  supreme  power.  The  de- 
fection of  a troop  of  guards,  a conspiracy  of  eunuchs,  a pop- 
ular tumult,  might  place  an  indolent  senator  or  a brutal  sol- 
dier on  the  throne  of  the  Roman  world.  Similar  revolutions 
have  often  occurred  in  the  despotic  states  of  Asia.  But  a 
community  which  has  heard  the  voiee  of  truth  and  experi- 
enced the  pleasures  of  liberty,  in  which  the  merits  of  statesmen 
and  of  systems  are  freely  canvassed,  in  which  obedience  is 
paid,  not  to  persons  but  to  laws,  in  which  magistrates  are 
regarded,  not  as  the  lords,  but  as  the  servants  of  the  public, 
in  which  the  excitement  of  party  is  a necessary  of  life,  in 
which  political  warfare  is  reduced  to  a system  of  taetics  ; such 
a community  is  not  easily  reduced  to  servitude.  Beasts  of 
l)urden  may  easily  be  maiiaged  by  a new  master.  But  will 
the  wild  ass  submit  to  tlie  bonds?  Will  the  unicorn  serve 
and  abide  by  the  crib  ? Will  leviathan  hold  out  his  nostrils 
to  the  hook?  The  mythological  conqueror  of  the  East, 
whose  enchantments  reduced  wild  beasts  to  the  tameness 
of  domestic  cattle,  and  who  harnessed  lions  and  tigers  to 
fiis  chariot,  is  but  an  imperfect  type  of  those  extraordinary 
minds  which  have  thrown  a spell  on  the  fierce  spirits  of  na- 
tions unaccustomed  to  control,  and  have  compelled  raging 
factions  to  obey  their  reins  and  swell  their  triumph.  The 
enterprise,  be  it  good  or  bad,  is  one  which  requires  a truly 
. great  man.  It  demands  courage,  activity,  energy,  wisdom, 
firmness,  conspicuous  virtues  or  vices  so  splendid  and  al* 
having  as  to  resemble  virtues. 

Those  who  have  succeeded  in  this  arduous  undertaking 


360  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  wuitimgs- 

form  a very  small  and  a very  remarkable  class.  Parents  of 
tyranny,  heirs  of  freedom,  kings  among  citizens,  citizens 
among  kings,  they  unite  in  tliemselves  the  characteristics  of 
the  system  which  sj)rings  from  them,  and  those  of  the  sys- 
tem from  which  they  have  sjirung.  Their  reigns  shine  with 
a double  light,  the  last  and  dearest  rays  of  departing  free- 
dom mingled  with  the  first  and  brightest  glories  of  empire 
in  its  dawn.  The  high  qualities  of  such  a prince  lend  to 
despotism  itself  a charm  drawn  from  the  liberty  under  which 
they  were  formed,  and  which  they  have  destroyed.  He 
resembles  an  European  who  settles  within  the  Tropics,  and 
carries  thither  the  strength  and  the  energetic  habits  acquired 
in  regions  more  propitious  to  the  constitution.  He  differs 
as  Vvidely  from  princes  nursed  in  the  purple  of  imperial 
cradles,  as  the  companions  of  Gama  from  their  dwarfish  and 
imbecile  progeny  which,  born  in  a climate  unfavorable  to 
its  growth  and  beauty,  degenerates  more  and  more,  at  every 
descent,  from  the  qualities  of  the  original  conquerors. 

In  this  class  three  men  stand  pre-eminent,  Caesar,  Crom- 
well, and  Bonaparte.  The  highest  place  in  this  remarkable 
triumvirate  belongs  undoubtedly  to  Caesar.  He  united  the 
talents  of  Bonaparte  to  those  of  Cromwell ; and  he  ])os- 
sessed  also,  what  neither  Cromwell  nor  Bonaparte  possessed, 
learning,  taste,  wit,  eloquence,  the  sentiments  and  the  man- 
ners of  an  accomplished  gentleman. 

Between  Cromwell  and  Napoleon  Mr.  Hallam  has  insti- 
tuted a parallel,  scarcely  less  ingenious  than  that  which 
Burke  has  drawm  between  Richard  Coeur  de  Lien  and 
Charles  the  Twelfth  of  Sweden.  In  this  parallel,  however, 
and  indeed  thoughout  his  work,  we  think  that  he  hardly 
gives  Cromwell  fair  measure.  ‘‘  Cromwell,  ” says  he,‘‘  far 
unlike  his  antitype,  never  showed  any  signs  of  a legislative 
mind,  or  any  desire  to  place  his  renown  on  that  noblest  basis, 
the  amelioration  of  social  institutions.”  The  difference  in 
this  respect,  we  conceive  was  not  in  the  character  of  the  men, 
but  in  the  characters  of  the  revolutions  by  means  of  which 
they  rose  to  power.  The  civil  war  in  England  had  been 
undertaken  to  defend  and  restore ; the  republicans  of  France 
set  themselves  to  destroy.  In  England,  the  principles  ol 
the  common  law  had  never  been  disturbed,  and  most  even 
of  its  forms  had  been  held  sacred.  In  France,  the  law  and 
its  ministers  had  been  swept  away  together.  In  France, 
therefore,  legislation  necessarily  became  the  first  business  of 
the  first  settle!  government  which  rose  on  the  ruins  of  the 


HALLAM. 


361 


old  system.  The  admirers  of  Inigo  Jones  have  always 
maintained  that  his  works  are  inferior  to  those  of  Sir 
Christopher  Wren,  only  because  the  great  fire  of  London 
gave  Wren  such  a field  for  the  display  of  his  powers  as  no 
architect  in  the  history  of  the  world  ever  possessed.  Simi- 
lar allowance  must  be  made  .for  Cromwell.  If  he  erected 
little  that  was  new,  it  was  because  there  had  been  no  general 
devastation  to  clear  a space  for  him.  As  it  was,  he  reformed 
the  representative  system  in  a most  judicious,  manner.  lie 
rendered  the  administration  of  justice  uniform  thoughcut 
the  island.  We  will  quote  a passage  from  his  speech  to  the 
Parliament  in  September,  1656,  which  contains,  we  think, 
simple  and  rude  as  the  diction  is,  stronger  indication  of  a 
legislative  mind,  than  are  to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of 
orations  delivered  on  such  occasions  before  or  since. 

‘‘  There  is  one  general  grievance  in  the  nation.  It  is  the 
law.  I think,  I may  say  it,  I have  as  eminent  judges  in  this 
land  as  have  been  had,  or  that  the  nation  has  had  for  these 
many  years.  Truly,  I could  be  particular  as  to  the  executive 
part,  to  the  administration ; but  that  would  trouble  you. 
But  the  truth  of  it  is,  there  are  wicked  and  abominable  laws 
that  will  be  in  your  power  to  alter.  To  hang  a man  for  six- 
pence, threepence,  I know  not  what, — to  hang  for  a trifle, 
and  pardon  murder,  is  in  the  ministration  of  the  law 
through  the  ill  framing  of  it.  I have  known  in  my  experience 
abominable  murders  quitted  ; and  to  see  men  lose  their  lives 
for  petty  matters ! This  is  a thing  that  God  will  reckon 
for;  and  I wish  it  may  not  lie  upon  this  nation  a day 
longer  than  you  have  an  opportunity  to  gire  a remedy; 
and  I hope  I shall  cheerfully  join  with  you  in  it.” 

Mr.  Hallain  truly  says  that,  though  it  is  impossible  to 
rank  Cromwell  with  Napoleon  as  a general,  yet  ‘‘  his  ex- 
ploits were  as  much  above  the  level  of  his  contemporaries, 
and  more  the  effects  of  an  original  uneducated  capacity.” 
Bonaparte  was  trained  in  the  best  military  schools ; the 
army  which  he  led  to  Italy  was  one  of  the  finest  that  ever 
existed.  Cromwell  passed  his  youth  and  the  prime  of  his 
manhood  in  a civil  situation.  He  never  looked  on  war  till 
he  was  more  than  forty  years  old.  He  had  first  to  form 
himself  and  then  to  form  his  troops.  Out  of  raw  levies  he 
created  an  army,  the  bravest  and  the  best  disciplined,  the 
most  orderly  in  peace,  and  the  most  terrible  in  war,  that 
Europe  had  seen.  He  called  this  body  into  existence.  He 
led  it  to  conquest.  He  never  fought  a battle  without  gain*^ 


862 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


ing  it.  lie  never  gained  a battle  witliout  annihilating  the 
force  oj)|)osed  to  liiin.  V^et  liis  victories  were  not  the  higli- 
est  glory  of  his  military  system.  Tlie  respect  wliich  his 
troo])S  paid  to  ]>roperty,  tlieir  attachmewt  to  the  laws  and 
religion  of  their  country,  their  submission  to  tlie  civil 
power,  tlieir  temperance,  their  intelligence,  their  industry, 
are  witliout  parallel.  It  Avas  after  the  Restoration  that  tlie 
spirit  which  their  great  leader  had  infused  into  them  was 
most  signally  displayed.  At  the  command  of  the  established 
government,  an  established  government  which  had  no  means 
of  enforcing  obedience,  fifty  thousand  soldiers,  whose  liacks 
no  enemy  had  ever  seen,  eitlier  in  domestic  or  in  continental 
Avar,  laid  doAvn  their  arms,  and  retired  into  the  mass  of  the 
peo])le,  thenceforAvard  to  be  distinguished  only  by  superior 
diligence,  sobriety,  and  regularity  in  the  pursuits  of  peace, 
from  the  other  members  of  the  community  which  they  had 
saved. 

In  the  general  spirit  and  character  of  his  adminstration, 
Ave  think  CromAvell  far  superior  to  Napoleon.  “ In  civil 
government,”  says  Mr.  Hallam,  “ there  can  be  no  adequate 
parallel  between  one  who  had  sucked  only  the  dregs  of  a be- 
sotted fanaticism,  and  one  to  whom  the  stores  of  reason  and 
])hilosophy  were  open.  ” These  expressions,  it  seems  to  us, 
coiiA^ey  the  highest  eulogium  on  our  great  countryman. 
Reason  and  philosophy  did  not  teach  the  conqueror  of 
Europe  to  command  his  passions,  or  to  pursue,  as  a first  ob- 
ject, the  happiness  of  his  people.  They  did  not  prevent 
liim  from  risking  his  fame  and  his  power  in  a frantic  con- 
test against  the  princijDles  of  human  nature  and  the  laAvs  of 
the  physical  Avorld,  against  the  rage  of  the  winter  and  the 
liberty  of  the  sea.  They  did  not  exempt  him  from  the  in- 
fluence of  that  most  pernicious  of  superstitions,  a presump- 
tuous fatalism.  They  did  not  preserve  him  from  the  ine- 
briation of  prosperity,  or  restrain  him  from  indecent  queru- 
lousness  in  adversity.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fanaticism  of 
Cromwell  never  urged  him  on  impracticable  undertakings, 
or  confused  his  perception  of  the  public  good.  Our  coun- 
tryman, inferior  to  Bonaparte  in  invention,  was  far  superior 
to  him  in  wisdom.  The  French  Emperor  is  among  conquer- 
ors AA'hat  Voltaire  is  among  writers,  a miraculous  child. 
Ilis  splendid  genius  was  frequently  clouded  by  fits  of  humor 
as  absurdly  perverse  as  those  of  the  pet  of  the  nursery,  who 
quarrels  with  his  food,  and  dashes  his  playthings  to  pieces. 
Cromwell  was  emphatically  a man.  He  possessed,  in  an 


HALLAM. 


363 


eminent  degree,  that  masculine  and  full-grown  robustness 
of  mind,  that  equally  diffused  intellectual  health,  Avhich,  it 
our  national  ])artiality  does  not  mislead  us,  has  peculiarly 
characterized  the  great  men  of  England.  Never  was  any 
ruler  so  consi)icuously  born  for  sovereignty.  The  cup  which 
Ins  intoxicated  almost  all  others  sobered  him.  His  spirit, 
restless  from  its  own  buoyancy  in  a lower  sphere,  reposed 
in  majestic  placidity  as  soon  as  it  had  reached  the  level  con- 
genial to  it.  He  had  nothing  in  common  with  that  large 
cla*;s  of  men  who  distinguish  themselves  in  subordinate  posts, 
and  whose  incapacity  becomes  obvious  as  soon  as  the  public 
voice  summons  them  to  take  the  lead.  Rapidly  as  his 
fortunes  grew,  his  mind  expanded  more  rapidly  still.  In- 
significant as  a priA^ate  citizen,  he  was  a great  general ; he 
was  a still  greater  prince.  Napoleon  had  a theatrical  man- 
ner, in  which  the  coarseness  of  a revolutionary  guard-room 
was  blended  with  the  ceremony  of  the  old  Court  of  Ver- 
sailles. Cromwell,  by  the  confession  even  of  his  enemies, 
exhibited  in  his  demeanor  the  simple  and  natural  nobleness 
of  a man  neither  ashamed  of  his  origin  nor  vain  of  his  eleva- 
tion, of  a man  who  had  found  his  proper  place  in  society, 
and  who  felt  secure  that  he  was  competent  to  fill  it.  Easy, 
even  to  familiarity,  where  his  own  dignity  Avas  concerned, 
he  was  punctilious  only  for  his  country.  His  own  character 
he  left  to  take  care  of  itself ; he  left  it  to  be  defended  by 
his  Auctories  in  Avar,  and  his  reforms  in  peace.  But  he  Avas 
a jealous  and  implacable  guardian  of  the  public  honor.  He 
suffered  a crazy  Quaker  to  insult  him  in  the  gallery  of 
Whitehall,  and  reA^enged  himself  only  by  liberating  him  and 
giving  him  a dinner.  But  he  w^as  prepared  to  risk  the 
chances  of  Avar  to  avenge  the  blood  of  a private  Englishman. 

No  sovereign  ever  carried  to  the  throne  so  large  a portion 
of  the  best  qualities  of  the  middling  orders,  so  strong  a sym- 
pathy Avith  the  feelings  and  interests  of  his  people.  He  Avas 
sometimes  driven  to  arbitrary  measures;  but  he  had  a high, 
stout,  honest,  English  heart.  Hence  it  was  that  he  loved  to 
surround  his  throne  with  such  men  as  Hale  and  Blake.  Hence 
it  was  that  he  allowed  so  large  a share  of  political  liberty  to 
his  subjects,  and  that,  even  Avhen  an  opposition  dangerous 
to  his  poAver  and  to  his  person  almost  compelled  him  to 
gOA^ern  by  the  SAVord,  he-Avas  still  anxious  to  leave  a germ 
from  Avhich,  at  a more  favorable  season,  free  institutions 
might  spring.  We  firmly  belie\^e  that,  if  his  first  Parlia- 
ment had  not  commenced  its  debates  by  disputing  his  title. 


864  Macaulay's  misckllankous  wnirmos. 

his  government  would  have  been  as  mild  at  home  as  it  was 
energetic  and  able  abroad.  Ife  Avas  a soldier  . he  had  risen 
by  Avar.  Had  his  ambition  been  of  an  impure  or  selfish  kind, 
it  would  have  been  easy  for  him  to  plunge  his  country  inle 
continental  hostilities  on  a large  scale,  and  to  dazzle  the 
restless  factions  which  he  ruled,  by  the  splendor  of  his  vic- 
tories. Some  of  his  enemies  have  sneeringly  remarked,  that 
in  the  successes  obtained  under  his  administration  he  had  no 
personal  share ; as  if  a man  avIio  had  raised  himself  from 
obscurity  to  empire  solely  by  his  military  talents  could  have 
any  unAvorthy  reason  for  shrinking  from  military  enter- 
prise. This  reproach  is  his  highest  glory.  In  the  suc- 
cess of  the  English  navy  he  could  have  no  selfish  interest. 
Its  triumphs  added  nothing  to  his  fame  ; its  increase  added 
nothing  to  his  means  of  overaAving  his  enemies;  its  great 
leader  was  not  his  friend.  Yet  he  took  a peculiar  pleasure 
in  encouraging  that  noble  service  which,  of  all  the  instru- 
ments employed  by  an  English  government,  is  the  most 
impotent  for  mischief,  and  the  most  powerful  for  good.  His 
administration  was  glorious,  but  Avith  no  Auilgar  glory.  It 
was  not  one  of  those  periods  of  overstrained  and  convulsive 
exertion  Avhich  necessarily  produce  debility  and  langor.  Its 
energy  Avas  natural,  healthful,  temperate.  He  placed  Eng- 
land at  the  head  of  the  Protestant  interest,  and  in  the  first 
rank  of  Christian  powers.  He  taught  every  nation  to  value 
her  friendship  and  to  dread  her  enmity.  But  he  did  not 
squander  her  resources  in  a A^ain  attempt  to  iiiA^est  her  with 
that  supremacy  which  no  poAver,  in  the  modern  system  of 
Europe,  can  safely  affect,  or  can  long  retain. 

This  noble  and  sober  Avisdom  had  its  reward.  If  he  did 
not  carry  the  banners  of  the  Commonwealth  in  triumph  to 
distant  capitals,  if  he  did  not  adorn  Whitehall  with  the 
spoils  of  the  Stadthouse  and  the  Louvre,  if  he  did  not  portion 
out  Flanders  and  Germany  into  principalities  for  his  kinsmen 
and  his  generals,  he  did  not,  on  the  other  hand,  see  his 
country  overrun  by  the  armies  of  nations  which  his  ambition 
had  provoked.  He  did  not  drag  out  the  last  years  of  his  life 
an  exile  and  a prisoner,  in  an  unhealthy  climate  and  under 
an  ungenerous  gaoler,  raging  with  the  impotent  desire  of 
vengeance,  and  brooding  over  visions  of  departed  glory. 
He  went  down  to  his  grave  in  the  fulness  of  power  and  fame ; 
and  he  left  to  his  son  an  authority  Avhich  any  man  of  ordi- 
nary firmness  and  prudence  Avould  have  retained. 

But  for  the  weakness  of  that  foolish  Ishbosheth,  the  opin 


flALLAM. 


S65 


ions  which  we  have  been  expressing  would,  we  believe,  now 
have  formed  the  orthodox  creed  of  good  Englishmen.  We 
night  now  be  writing  under  the  govermnent  of  his  Highness 
Oliver  the  Fifth  or  Richard  the  Fourth,  Protector,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  of  the  Commonwealth  of  England,  Scotland, 
and  Ireland,  and  the  dominions  thereto  belonging.  The 
form  of  the  great  founder  of  the  dynasty,  on  horseback,  as 
when  he  led  the  charge  at  Naseby,  or  on  foot,  as  when  he 
took  the  mace  from  tlie  table  of  the  Commons,  would  adorn 
our  squares  and  overlook  our  public  offices  from  Charing- 
Cross ; and  sermons  in  his  praise  would  be  duly  preached 
on  his  lucky  day,  the  third  of  September,  by  court-chaplains, 
guiltless  of  the  abomination  of  the  surplice. 

JBut,  though  his  memory  has  not  been  taken  under  the 
patronage  of  any  party,  though  every  device  has  been  used 
to  blacken  it,  though  to  praise  him  would  long  have  been 
a punishable  crime,  truth  and  merit  at  last  prevail.  Cowards 
who  had  trembled  at  the  very  sound  of  his  name,  tools  of 
office  who,  like  Downing,  had  been  proud  of  tne  honor  of 
lacqueying  his  coach,  might  insult  him  in  loyal  speeches  and 
addresses.  Venal  jDoets  might  transfer  to  the  King  the  same 
eulogies,  little  the  worse  for  wear,  which  they  had  bestowed 
on  the  Protector.  A fickle  multitude  might  crowd  to  shout 
and  scoff  round  the  gibbeted  remains  of  the  greatest  Prince 
and  Soldier  of  the  age.  But  when  the  Dutch  cannon 
etartled  an  effeminate  tyrant  in  his  own  palace,  when  the 
conquests  which  had  been  won  by  the  armies  of  Cromwell 
were  sold  to  pamper  the  harlots  of  Charles,  when  Englishmen 
were  sent  to  fight  under  foreign  banners,  against  the  inde- 
pendence of  Europe  and  the  Protestant  religion,  many 
honest  hearts  swelled  in  secret  at  the  thought  of  one  who 
had  never  suffered  his  country  to  be  ill  used  by  any  but 
himself.  It  must  indeed  have  been  difficult  for  any  English- 
man to  see  the  salaried  Viceroy  of  France,  at  the  most  im- 
portant crisis  of  his  fate,  sauntering  through  Tiis  harem, 
yawning  and  talking  nonsense  over  a dispatch,  or  beslob- 
bering his  brother  and  his  courtiers  in  a fit  of  maudlin  affec- 
tion, without  a respectful  and  tender  remembrance  of  him 
before  whose  genius  the  young  pride  of  Lewis  and  the 
veteran  craft  of  Mazarin  had  stood  rebuked,  who  had 
humbled  Spain  on  the  land  and  Holland  on  the  sea,  and 
Avhose  imperial  voice  had  arrested  the  sails  of  the  Lybian 
pirates  and  the  persecuting  fires  of  Rome.  Even  to  the 
presei  t day  his  character,  ilioiigh  constantly  attacked,  and 


860  macaitlay’s  miscell.\ni:ous  avritings. 

Beared y ever  defended,  is  popular  Avitli  the  great  body  ot 
our  eountrynien. 

The  most  hlamealde  aet  of  Ids  life  was  tlie  exeeutioii  of 
Charles.  We  have  already  strongly  eondemned  that  pro- 
ceeding* but  we  by  no  means  eonsider  it  as  one  which 
attaches  any  peculiar  stigma  of  infamy  to  the  names  of  those 
who  participated  in  it.  It  was  an  unjust  and  injudicious 
display  of  violent  ]>arty  spirit;  Init  it  was  not  a cruel  or  por- 
Hdious  measure.  It  had  all  those  features  which  distinguish 
tlie  errors  of  magnanimous  and  intrepid  spirits  from  base  and 
malignant  crimes. 

From  the  moment  that  Cromwell  is  dead  and  buried,  we 
go  on  in  almost  perfect  harmony  with  Mr.  Hallam  to  the  end 
of  his  book.  The  times  which  followed  the  Restoration 
peculiarly  require  that  unsparing  impartiality  which  is  his 
most  distinguishing  virtue.  No  part  of  our  history,  during 
the  last  three  centuries,  presents  a spectacle  of  such  general 
dreariness.  The  whole  breed  of  our  statesmen  seems  to  have 
degenerated,  and  their  moral  and  intellectual  littleness 
strikes  us  with  the  more  disgust,  because  we  see  it  placed  in 
immediate  contrast  with  the  high  and  majestic  qualities  of 
the  race  which  they  succeeded.  In  the  great  civil  war,  even 
the  bad  cause  had  been  rendered  respectable  and  amiable  by 
the  purity  and  elevation  of  mind  which  many  of  its  friend^^ 
displayed.  Under  Charles  the  Second,  the  best  and  nobles\> 
of  ends  was  disgraced  by  means  the  most  cruel  and  sordid 
The  rage  of  faction  succeeded  to  the  love  of  liberty.  Loyalty 
died  away  into  servility.  We  look  in  vain  among  the 
leading  politicians  of  either  side  for  steadiness  of  principle, 
or  even  for  that  vulgar  fidelity  to  party  which,  in  our  time, 
it  is  esteemed  infamous,  to  violate.  The  inconsistency,  per- 
fidy, and  baseness,  which  the,  leaders  constantly  practised, 
which  their  followers  defended,  and  which  the  great  body  of 
the  people  regarded,  as  it  seems,  wdth  little  disapprobation, 
appear  in  the  present  age  almost  incredible.  In  the  age  of 
Charles  the  First,  they  would,  we  believe,  have  exc'ited  as 
much  astonishment. 

Man,  however,  is  always  the  same.  And  when  so  marked 
a difference  appears  between  two  generations,  it  is  certain 
that  the  solution  may  be  found  in  their  respective  circum- 
stances. The  principal  statesmen  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the 
Second  were  trained  during  the  civil  war  and  the  revolu- 
tions which  followed  it.  Such  a period  is  eminently  favor- 
able to  the  growth  of  quick  and  active  talents.  It  forms  a 


HALLAM. 


367 


class  of  men,  shrewd,  vigilant,  inventive;  of  men  wlioso 
dexterity  triiimplis  over  the  most  perplexing  combinations 
of  circumstances,  whose  presaging  instinct  no  sign  of  the 
times  can  elude.  But  it  is  an  unpropitious  season  for  the 
firm  and  masculine  virtues.  The  statesman  who  enters  on 
his  career  at  such  a time,  can  form  no  permanent  connec- 
tions, can  make  no  accurate  observations  on  the  higher  parts 
of  political  science.  Before  he  can  attach  himself  to  a party, 
it  is  scattered.  Before  he  can  study  the  nature  of  a govern- 
ment, it  is  overturned.  The  oath  of  abjuration  comes  close 
on  the  oath  of  allegiance.  The  association  which  was  sub- 
scribed yesterday  is  burned  by  the  hangman  to-day.  In  the 
midst  of  the  constant  eddy  and  change,  self-preservation 
becomes  the  first  object  of  the  adventurer.  It  is  a task  too 
hard  for  the  strongest  head  to  keep  itself  from  becoming 
giddy  in  the  eternal  whirl.  Public  spirit  is  out  of  the 
question.  A laxity  of  principle,  without  which  no  public 
man  can  be  eminent  or  even  safe,  becomes  too  common  to 
be  scandalous ; and  the  whole  nation  looks  coolly  on  instances 
of  apostacy  which  would  startle  the  foulest  turncoat  of  more 
settled  times. 

The  history  of  France  since  the  Revolution  affords  some 
striking  illustrations  of  these  remarks.  The  same  man  was 
a servant  of  the  Republic,  of  Bonaparte,  of  Louis  the  Eigh- 
teenth, of  Bonaparte  again  after  his  return  from  Elba,  of 
Louis  again  after  his  return  from  Ghent.  Yet  all  these 
manifold  treasons  by  no  means  seemed  to  destroy  his  influ- 
ence, or  even  to  fix  any  peculiar  stain  of  infamy  on  his 
character.  We,  to  be  sure,  did  not  know  what  to  make  of 
him;  but  his  countrymen  did  not  seem  to  be  shocked;  and 
in  truth  they  had  little  right  to  be  shocked : for  there  wa? 
scarcely  one  Frenchman  distinguished  in  the  state  or  in 
the  army,  who  had  not,  according  to  the  best  of  his  talents 
and  opportunities,  emulated  the  example.  It  was  natural, 
too,  that  this  should  be  the  case.  The  rapidity  and  violence 
with  which  change  followed  change  in  the  affairs  of  France 
towards  the  close  of  the  last  century  had  taken  away  the 
reproach  of  inconsistency,  unfixed  the  principles  of  public 
men,  and  produced  in  many  minds  a general  skepticism  and  • 
indifference  about  principles  of  government. 

No  Englishman  who  has  studied  attentively  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Second  will  think  himself  entitled  to  indulgence 
in  any  feelings  of  national  superiority  over  the  DictionnairQ 
des  GirowUcm.  Shaftesbury  was  surely  a far  less  respect. 


Macaulay’s  mtsckllankous  wkitings. 


3l>8 


able  man  than  Talleyrand ; and  it  would  be  injustice  even 
to  Fouch6  to  compare  him  with  Lauderdale.  Nothing, 
indeed,  can  more  clearly  show  how  low  the  standard  of 
political  morality  had  fallen  in  this  country  than  the  fortunes 
of  the  two  British  statesmen  whom  we  have  named.  The 
government  wanted  a ruffian  to  carry  on  the  most  atrocious 
system  of  misgovernment  with  which  any  nation  was  ever 
cursed,  to  extirpate  Presbyterianism  by  fire  and  sword,  by 
the  drowning  of  women,  by  the  frightful  torture  of  the  boot. 
And  they  found  him  among  the  chiefs  of  the  rebellion  and 
the  subscribers  of  the  Covenant.  The  opposition  looked  for 
a chief  to  head  them  in  the  most  desperate  attacks  ever 
made,  under  the  forms  of  the  Constitution,  on  any  English 
administration:  and  they  selected  the  minister  who  had  the 
deepest  share  in  the  worst  acts  of  the  Court,  the  soul  of  the 
Cabal,  the  counsellor  who  had  shut  u]3  the  Exchequer  and 
urged  on  the  Dutch  war.  The  whole  political  drama  was  of 
the  same  cast.  No  unity  of  plan,  no  decent  propriety  of 
character  and  costume,  could  be  found  in  that  wild  and 
monstrous  harlequinade.  The  whole  was  made  up  of  ex- 
travagant transformations  and  burlesque  contrasts ; Atheists 
turned  Puritans;  Puritans  turned  Atheists;  republicans  de- 
fending the  divine  right  of  Kings;  prostitute  courtiers 
clamoring  for  the  liberties  of  the  people ; judges  inflaming 
the  rage  of  mobs ; patriots  pocketing  bribes  from  foreign 
powers ; a Popish  prince  torturing  Presbyterians  into  Epis- 
copacy in  one  part  of  the  island;  Presbyterians  cutting  off 
the  heads  of  Popish  noblemen  and  gentlemen  in  the  other. 
Public  opinion  has  its  natural  flux  and  reflux.  After  a 
violent  burst,  there  is  commonly  a reaction.  But  vicissi- 
tudes so  extraordinary  as  those  which  marked  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Second  can  only  be  explained  by  supposing  an 
utter  want  of  principle  in  the  political  world.  On  neither 
side  was  there  fidelity  enough  to  face  a reverse.  Those 
honorable  retreats  from  power  which,  in  later  days,  parties 
have  often  made,  with  loss,  but  still  in  good  order,  in  firm 
union,  with  unbroken  spirit  and  formidable  means  of  annoy- 
ance, were  utterly  unknown.  As  soon  as  a check  took  place 
a total  rout  followed : arms  and  colors  were  thrown  away. 
The  vanquished  troops,  like  the  Italian  mercenaries  of  the 
fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  enlisted  on  the  very  field 
of  battle,  in  the  service  of  the  conquerers.  In  a nation 
proud  of  its  sturdy  justice  and  plain  good  sense,  no  party 
could  be  found  to  take  a firm  middle  stand  between  the 


nALLAM. 


369 


worst  of  oppositions  and  tl\e  worst  of  courts.  Wlien,  on 
charges  as  wild  as  Motlicr  Goose’s  tales,  on  the  testimony  of 
wretches  who  proclaimed  themselves  to  be  spies  and  traitors, 
and  whom  everybody  now  believes  to  have  been  also  liars 
and  murderers,  the  offal  of  jails  and  brothels,  the  leavings 
of  the  hangman’s  whij)  and  shears,  Catholics  guilty  of  noth- 
ing but  their  religion  were  led  like  sheep  to  the  Protestant 
shambles,  where  were  the  loyal  Tory  gentry  and  the  pas- 
sively obedient  clergy?  And  where,  when  the  time  of  retri- 
bution came,  when  laws  were  strained  and  juries  packed  to 
destroy  the  leaders  of  the  Whigs,  when  charters  were 
invaded,  when  Jefferies  and  Kirke  were  making  Somerset- 
shire what  Lauderdale  and  Graham  had  made  Scotland, 
where  were  the  ten  thousand  brisk  boys  of  Shaftesbury,  the 
members  of  ignoramus  juries,  the  Avearers  of  the  Polish 
medal?  All-powerful  to  destroy  others,  unable  to  save 
themselves,  the  members  of  the  tAvo  parties  oppressed  and 
Avere  oppressed,  murdered,  and  were  murdered,  in  their  turn. 
No  lucid  inter A\al  occurred  betAveen  the  frantic  paroxysms 
of  tAvo  contradictory  illusions. 

To  the  freqnent  changes  of  the  government  during  the 
twenty  years  which  had  preceded  the  Restoration,  this 
unsteadiness  is  in  a great  measure  to  be  attributed.  Other 
causes  had  also  been  at  Avork.  Even  if  the  country  had 
been  governed  by  the  house  of  Cromwell  or  by  the  remains 
of  the  Long  Parliament,  the  extreme  austerity  of  the  Puri- 
tans Avould  necessarily  have  produced  a revulsion.  Towards 
the  close  of  the  Protectorate  many  signs  indicated  that  a 
time  of  license  Avas  at  hand.  But  the  restoration  of  Charles 
the  Second  rendered  the  change  wonderfully  rapid  and 
Auolent.  Profligacy  became  a test  of  orthodoxy  and  loyalty, 
a qualification  for  rank  and  office.  A deep  and  general  taint 
infected  the  morals  of  the  most  influential  classes,  and  spread 
Itself  through  every  proAunce  of  letters.  Poetry  inflamed 
the  passions ; philosophy  undermined  the  principles ; divinity 
itself,  inculcating  an  abject  reverence  for  the  Court,  gave 
additional  effect  to  the  licentious  example  of  the  Court. 
We  look  in  vain  for  those  qualities  Avhich  lend  a charm  to 
the  errors  of  high  and  ardent  natures,  for  the  generosity, 
the  tenderness,  the  chivalrous  delicacy,  which  ennoble  appe- 
tites into  passions,  and  impart  to  vice  itself  a portion  of  the 
majesty  of  Aurtue.  The  excesses  of  that  age  remind  us  of 
the  humors  of  a gang  of  footpads,  revelling  with  their 
favorite  beauties  of  a flash-house,  In  the  fashionable  liber- 
Yoi.. 


370 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLAJSEOUS  WKITINQS. 


tmisin  tliere  is  a lianl,  cold  ferocity,  an  impudence,  a low- 
ness, a dirtiness,  wliicli  can  be  ])aralleled  only  among  the 
lieroes  and  heroines  of  that  filthy  and  heartless  literature 
which  encouraged  it.  One  nobleman  of  great  abilities 
wanders  about  as  a Merry-Andrew.  Another  harangues  the 
mob  stark  naked  from  a window.  A third  lays  an  ambush 
to  cudgel  a man  Avho  has  offended  him.  A knot  of  gentle- 
men of  high  rank  and  influence  combine  to  ])ush  their 
fortunes  at  court  by  circulating  stories  intended  to  ruin  an 
innocent  girl,  stories  which  had  no  foundation,  and  which, 
if  they  had  been  true,  would  never  have  ]>asssd  the  lips  of  a 
man  of  honor.  A dead  child  is  found  in  the  palace,  the 
offspring  of  some  maid  of  honor  by  some  courtier,  or  j)er- 
haps  by  Charles  himself.  The  whole  flight  of  pandars  and 
buffoons  pounce  upon  it,  and  carry  it  in  triumph  to  the 
royal  laboratory,  where  his  Majesty,  after  a brutal  jest,  dis- 
sects it  for  the  amusement  of  the  assembly,  and  probably  of 
its  father  among  the  rest.  The  favorite  Duchess  stamps 
about  Whitehall,  cursing  and  swearing.  The  ministers 
employ  their  time  at  the  council-board  in  making  mouths  at 
each  other  and  taking  off  each  other’s  gestures  for  the 
amusement  of  the  King.  The  Peers  at  a conference  begin 
to  pommel  each  other  and  to  tear  collars  and  periwigs.  A 
speaker  in  the  House  of  Commons  gives  offence  to  the 
Court.  He  is  waylaid  by  a gang  of  bullies,  and  his  nose  is 
cut  to  the  bone.  The  ignominous  dissoluteness,  or  rather, 
if  we  may  venture  to  designate  it  by  the  only  proper  word, 
blackguardism  of  feeling  and  manners,  could  not  but  spread 
from  private  to  public  life.  The  cynical  sneers,  the  epicu- 
rean sophistry,  which  had  driven  honor  and  virtue  from  one 
part  of  the  character,  extended  their  influence  over  every 
other.  The  second  generation  of  the  statesmen  of  this  reign 
were  worthy  pupils  of  the  schools  in  which  they  had  been 
trained,  of  the  gaming-table  of  Grammont,  and  the  tiring, 
room  of  Kell.  In  no  other  age  could  such  a trifler  as  Buck- 
ingham have  exercised  any  political  influence.  In  no  other 
age  could  the  path  to  power  and  glory  have  been  thrown 
o|3en  to  the  manifold  infamies  of  Churchill. 

The  history  of  Churchill  shows,  more  clearly  perhaps 
than  that  of  any  other  individual,  the  malignity  and  extent 
of  the  corruption  which  had  eaten  into  the  heart  of  the  pub- 
lic morality.  An  English  gentleman  of  good  family  attaches 
himself  to  a Prince  who  has  seduced  his  sister,  and  accepts 
rank  and  wealth  as  the  price  of  her  shame  and  his  own. 


HALLAM. 


371 


He  then  repays  by  ingratitude  the  benefits  which  he  has 
purchased  by  ignominy,  betrays  Ids  patron  in  a mariner 
which  tl)e  best  cause  cannot  excuse,  and  commits  an  act, 
not  only  oi  private  treachery,  but  of  distinct  ndlitary  deser- 
tion. To  his  conduct  at  the  crisis  of  the  fate  of  James,  no 
Bervice  in  modern  times  has,  as  far  as  we  remember,  fur- 
nished any  parallel.  The  conduct  of  Ney,  scandalous 
enough  no  doubt,  is  the  very  fastidiousness  of  honor  in 
^om])arison  of  it.  The  perfidy  of  Arnold  approaches  it  most 
nearly.  In  our  age  and  country  no  talents,  no  services,  no 
party  attachments,  could  bear  any  man  up  under  such  moun- 
tains of  infamy.  Yet,  even  before  Churchill  had  ])erformed 
those  great  actions  which  in  some  degree  redeem  Ids  charac- 
ter with  posterity,  the  load  lay  very  lightly  on  him.  .He 
nad  others  in  abundance  to  keep  him  in  countenance.  Go- 
dolpldn,  Orford,  Dauby,  the  trimmer  Halifax,  the  renegade 
Sunderland,  were  all  men  of  the  same  class. 

Where  such  was  the  political  morality  of  the  noble  and 
the  wealthy,  it  may  easily  t)e  conceived  that  those  profi's- 
sions  which,  even  in  the  best  times,  arc  peculiarly  liable  lo 
corruption,  were  in  a frightful  state.  Such  a bench  anc 
such  a bar  England  has  never  seen.  Jones,  Scroggs,  Jeffer- 
ies, North,  Wright,  Sawyer,  Williams,  are  to  this  day  the 
spots  and  blemishes  of  our  legal  chronicles.  Differing  in 
constitution,  and  in  situation,  whether  blustering  or  cringing, 
whether  persecuting  Protostants  or  Catholics,  they  were 
equally  unprincipled  and  inhuman.  The  part  which  the 
Church  played  was  not  equally  atrocious;  but  it  must  have 
been  exquisitely  diverting  to  a scoffer.  Never  were  principles 
so  loudly  professed,  and  so  shamelessly  abandoned.  The 
Royal  prerogative  had  been  magnified  to  the  skies  in  theo- 
logical works.  The  doctrine  of  passive  obedience  had  been 
preached  from  innumerable  pulpits.  The  University  of  Ox» 
ford  had  sentenced  the  works  of  the  most  moderate  constitu- 
tionalists to  the  flames.  The  accession  of  a Catholic  King, 
the  frightful  cruelties  committed  in  the  west  of  England,  never 
shook  the  steady  loyalty  of  the  clergy.  But  did  they  serve 
the  King  for  nought  ? He  laid  his  hands  on  them,  and  they 
cursed  him  to  his  face.  He  touched  the  revenue  of  a college 
and  the  liberty  of  some  prelates ; and  the  whole  profession  set 
up  a yell  worthy  of  Hugh  Peters  himself.  Oxford  sent  her 
plate  to  an  invader  with  more  alacrity  than  she  had  shown 
when  Charles  the  First  requested  it.  Nothing  was  said 
about  the  wickedness  of  resistance  till  resistance  had  done 


872  MACAULAV’s  MISCli:LLANt®l?S  WRITINGS. 

its  work,  till  the  anointed  vicegerent  of  Heaven  had  heen 
driven  away,  and  till  it  had  hecome  plain  that  lie  would 
never  he  restored,  or  would  he  restored  at  least  under  strict 
limitations.  The  clergy  went  hack,  it  must  he  owned,  to 
their  old  theory,  as  soon  as  they  found  that  it  would  do  them 
no  harm. 

It  is  principally  to  the  general  baseness  and  profligacy 
of  the  times  that  Clarendon  is  indebted  for  his  high  reputa^ 
lion.  He  was,  in  every  respect,  a man  unfit  for  his  age,  at 
once  too  good  for  it  and  too  bad  for  it.  He  seemed  to  he 
one  of  the  ministers  of  Elizabeth,  transplanted  at  once  to  a 
state  of  society  widely  different  from  that  in  which  the  abil- 
ities of  such  ministers  had  been  serviceable.  In  the  sixteenth 
century,  the  lloyal  prerogative  had  scarcely  been  called  in 
question.  A Minister  who  held  it  high  w^as  in  no  danger, 
so  long  as  he  used  it  well.  That  attachment  to  the  Crown, 
that  extreme  jealousy  of  popular  encroachments,  that  love, 
half  religious,  half  political,  for  the  Church,  which,  from  the 
beginning  of  the  second  session  of  the  Long  Parliament, 
showed  itself  in  Clarendon,  and  wLich  his  sufferings,  his 
long  residence  in  France,  and  his  high  station  in  the  govern- 
ment, served  to  strengthen,  would,  a hundred  years  earlier, 
have  secured  to  him  the  favor  of  his  sovereign  v/ithout  ren- 
dering him  odious  to  the  people.  His  probity,  his  correct- 
ness in  private  life,  his  decency  of  deportment,  and  his 
general  ability,  would  not  have  nnisbecome  a colleague  of 
Walsingham  and  Burleigh.  But,  in  the  times  on  which  he 
was  cast,  his  errors  and  his  virtues  were  alike  out  of  place. 
He  imprisoned  men  without  trial.  He  was  accused  of  rais- 
ing unlawful  contributions  on  the  people  for  the  support  of 
the  army.  The  abolition  of  the  act  wdiich  ensured  the  fre- 
quent holding  of  Parliaments  was  one  of  his  favorite  objects. 
He  seems  to  have  meditated  the  revival  of  the  Star  Chamber 
and  the  High  Commission  Court.  His  zeal  for  the  preroga- 
tive made  him  unpopular ; but  it  could  not  secure  to  him 
the  favor  of  a master  far  more  desirous  of  ease  and  pleasure 
than  of  power.  Charles  w^ould  rather  have  lived  in  exile 
and  privacy,  with  abundance  of  money,  a crowd  of  mimics 
to  amuse  him,  and  a score  of  mistresses,  than  have  purchased 
the  absolute  dominion  of  the  world  by  the  privations  and 
exertions  to  which  Clarendon  was  constantly  urging  him. 
A councillor  who  was  always  bringing  him  papers  and  giving 
him  advice,  and  who  stoutly  refused  to  compliment  Lady 
Castlcmaine  and  to  carry  luessages  to  Mistress  Stewart,  soon 


IIALLAM. 


8T3 


became  more  hateful  to  him  than  ever  Cromwell  had  been. 
Thus,  considered  by  the  people  as  an  oppressor,  by  the 
Court  as  a censor,  the  Minister  fell  from  his  high  office  with 
a ruin  more  violent  and  destructive  than  could  ever  have 
been  his  fate,  if  lie  had  eitlier  respected  the  principles  of  the 
Constitution  or  flattered  the  vices  of  the  King. 

Mr.  Hallamhas  formed,  we  think,  a most  correct  estimate 
of  the  character  and  administration  of  Clarendon.  But  he 
scarcely  makes  a sufficient  allowance  for  the  wear  and  tear 
which  honesty  almost  necessarily  sustains  in  the  friction  of 
political  life,  and  which,  in  times  so  rough  as  those  through 
which  Clarendon  passed,  must  be  very  considerable.  When 
these  are  fairly  estimated,  we  think  that  his  integrity  may 
be  allowed  to  pass  muster.  A high-minded  man  he  certainly 
was  not,  either  in  public  or  in  private  affairs.  His  own  ac- 
count of  his  conduct  in  the  affair  of  his  daughter  is  the  most 
extraordinary  passage  in  autobiography.  We  except  noth- 
ing even  in  the  Confessions  of  Rousseau.  Several  writers 
have  taken  a perverted  and  absurd  pride  in  representing 
themselves  as  detestable  ; but  no  other  ever  labored  hard  to 
make  himself  despicable  and  ridiculous.  In  one  important 
particular  Clarendon  showed  as  little  regard  to  the  honor 
of  his  country  as  he  had  shown  to  that  of  his  family.  He 
accepted  a subsidy  from  France  for  the  relief  of  Portugal. 
But  this  method  of  obtaining  money  was  afterwards  prac- 
tised to  a much  greater  extent,  and  for  objects  much  less 
respectable,  both  by  the  Court  and  by  the  Opposition. 

These  pecuniary  transactions  are  commonly  considered 
as  the  most  disgraceful  part  of  the  history  of  those  times  ; 
and  they  were  no  doubt  highly  reprehensible.  Yet,  in  jus- 
tice to  the  Whigs  and  to  Charles  himself^  w^e  must  admit 
that  they  were  not  so  shameful  or  atrocious  as  at  the  present 
day  they  appear.  The  effect  of  violent  animosities  bst ween 
parties  has  always  been  an  indifference  to  the  general  welfare 
and  honor  of  the  State.  A politician,  where  factions  run 
high,  is  interested  not  for  the  whole  people,  but  lor  his  own 
section  of  it.  The  rest  are,  in  his  view,  strangers,  enemies, 
or  rather  pirates.  The  strongest  aversion  which  he  can  feel 
to  any  foreign  power  is  the  ardor  of  friendship,  when  com- 
pared with  the  loathing  which  he  entertains  towards  those 
domestic  foes  with  whom  he  is  cooped  up  in  narrow  space, 
with  whom  he  lives  in  a constant  interchange  of  petty  in- 
juries and  insults,  and  from  whom,  in  the  day  of  their  suc- 
cess, he  has  to  expect  severities  far  beyond  any  that  a con 


374 


MACAUTAy’s  miscellaneous  AVIllTINGS. 


qneror  from  a distant  country  would  inflict.  Thus,  In 
Greece,  it  was  a point  of  honor  for  a man  to  cleave  to  his 
party  against  his  own  country.  No  aristocratical  citizen  of 
Samos  or  Corcyra  would  have  hesitated  to  call  in  the  aid  of 
Lacedaemon.  The  multitude,  on  the  contrary,  looked  every- 
where to  Athens.  In  the  Italian  states  of  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries,  f'-om  the  same  cause,  no  man  was  so 
much  a Pisan  or  a Florentine  as  a Ghibeline  or  a Guelf.  It 
may  be  doubted  whether  there  was  a single  individual  who 
would  have  scrupled  to  raise  his  party  from  a state  of  de- 
pression, by  opening  the  gates  of  his  native  city  to  a French 
or  an  Arragonese  force.  The  Reformation,  dividing  almost 
every  European  country  into  two  parts,  produced  similar 
effects.  The  Catholic  was  too  strong  for  the  Englishman, 
the  Huguenot  for  the  Frenchman.  The  Protestant  states- 
men of  Scotland  and  France  called  in  the  aid  of  Elizabeth  ; 
and  the  Papists  of  the  League  brought  a Spanish  army  into 
the  very  heart  of  France.  The  commotions  to  which  the 
French  Revolution  gave  rise  were  followed  by  the  same 
consequences.  The  Republicans  in  every  part  of  Europe 
were  eager  to  see  the  armies  of  the  National  Convention 
and  the  Directory  appear  among  them,  and  exalted  in  de- 
feats which  distressed  and  humbled  those  whom  they  con- 
sidered as  their  worst  enemies,  their  own  rulers.  The 
princes  and  nobles  of  France,  on  the  other  hand,  did  their 
utmost  to  bring  foreign  invaders  to  Paris.  A very  short 
time  has  elapsed  since  the  Apostolical  party  in  Spain  in- 
voked, too  successfully,  the  support  of  strangers. 

The  great  contest  which  raged  in  England  during  the 
seventeenth  century  extinguished,  not  indeed  in  the  body 
of  the  people,  but  in  those  classes  which  were  most  actively 
engaged  in  politics,  almost  all  national  feelings.  Charles 
the  Second  and  many  of  his  courtiers  had  passed  a large 
part  of*  their  lives  in  banishment,  living  on  the  bounty  of 
foreign  treasuries,  soliciting  foreign  aid  to  re-establish  mon- 
archy in  their  native  country.  The  King’s  own  brother  had 
fought  in  Flanders,  under  the  banners  of  Spain,  against  the 
English  armies.  The  oppressed  Cavaliers  in  England  con- 
stantly looked  to  the  Louvre  and  the  Escurial  for  deliver- 
ance and  revenge.  Clarendon  censures  the  continental  gov- 
ernments with  great  bitterness  for  not  interfering  in  our  in- 
ternal dissensions.  It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  amidst 
the  furious  contests  which  followed  the  Restoration,  the 
violence  of  party  feeling  should  produce  effects  which  would 


HALLAM. 


375 


probably  have  attended  it  even  in  an  age  less  distinguished  by 
laxity  of  principle  and  indelicacy  of  sentiment.  It  was  not 
Till  a natural  death  had  terminated  the  paralytic  old  age  of 
the  Jacobite  party  that  the  evil  was  completely  at  an  end. 
The  Whigs  long  looked  to  Holland,  the  High  Tories  to 
France.  The  former  concluded  the  Barrier  Treaty;  the 
latter  entreated  the  Court  of  Versailles  to  send  an  expe- 
dition to  England.  Many  men  who,  however  erroneous 
their  political  notions  might  be,  were  unquestionably  honor- 
able in  private  life,  accepted  money  without  scruple  from 
the  foreign  powers  favorable  to  the  Pretender. 

Never  was  there  less  of  national  feeling  among  the  higher 
orders  than  during  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second.  Idiat 
Prince,  on  the  one  side,  thought  it  better  to  be  the  deputy 
of  an  absolute  king  than  the  King  of  a free  people.  Alger- 
non Sydney,  on  the  other  hand,  would  gladly  have  aided 
France  in  all  her  ambitious  schemes,  and  have  seen  Eng- 
land reduced  to  the  condition  of  a province,  in  the  wild  hope 
that  a foreign  despot  would  assist  him  to  establish  his  dar- 
ling republic.  The  King  took  the  money  of  France  to 
assist  him  in  the  enterprise  which  he  meditated  against  the 
liberty  of  his  subjects,  with  as  little  scruple  as  Frederic  of 
Prussia  or  Alexander  of  Russia  accepted  our  subsidies  in 
time  of  war.  The  leaders  of  the  Opposition  no  more  thought 
themselves  disgraced  by  the  presents  of  Louis,  than  a gen- 
tleman of  our  own  time  thinks  himself  disgraced  by  the 
libeiality  of  powerful  and  wealthy  members  of  his  party 
who  pay  his  election  bill.  The  money  which  the  King  re- 
ceived from  France  had  been  largely  employed  to  corrupt 
members  of  Parliament.  The  enemies  of  the  court  might 
think  it  fair,  or  even  absolutely  necessary,  to  encounter 
bribery  with  bribery.  Thus  they  took  the  French  gratuities, 
the  needy  among  them  for  their  own  use,  the  rich  probably 
for  the  general  purposes  of  the  party,  without  any  scruple. 
If  we  compare  their  conduct  not  with  that  of  English  states- 
men in  our  own  time,  but  with  that  of  persons  in  those 
foreign  countries  which  are  now  situated  as  England  then 
was,  we  shall  probably  see  reason  to  abate  something  of  the 
severity  of  censure  with  which  it  has  been  the  fashion  to 
visit  these  proceedings.  Yet,  when  every  allowance  is 
made,  the  transaction  is  sufficiently  offensive.  It  is  satisfac- 
tory to  find  that  Lord  Russell  stands  free  from  any  imputa^ 
tion  of  personal  participation  in  the  spoil.  An  age  so  miser- 
ably poor  in  all  the  moral  qualities  which  render  public 


376 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


characters  resj)cctal)lc  can  ill  spare  tlie  credit  w'liicli  it  de- 
rives from  a man,  not  indeed  conspicuous  for  talents  or 
knowledge,  but  honest  even  in  Ins  errors,  resj)cctal)le  in 
every  relation  of  life,  rationally  })ious,  steadily  and  j)lacidly 
brave. 

The  great  improvement  which  took  })lace  in  our  breed 
of  public  men  is  principally  to  be  ascribed  to  the  Kevolu- 
tion.  Yet  that  memorable  event,  in  a great  measure,  took 
its  character  from  the  very  vices  whicb  it  was  the  means  of 
reforming.  It  was  assuredly  a happy  revolution  and  a useful 
revolution  ; but  it  was  not,  what  it  has  often  been  called,  a 
glorious  revolution.  William,  and  William  alone,  derived 
glory  from  it.  The  transaction  was,  in  almost  every  part, 
discreditable  to  England.  That  a tyrant  who  had  violated 
the  fundamental  laws  of  the  country,  who  had  attacked  the 
rights  of  its  greatest  corporations,  who  had  begun  to  ]ierse- 
cute  the  established  religion  of  the  state,  who  had  never  re- 
spected the  law  either  in  his  superstition  or  in  his  revenge, 
could  not  be  pulled  down  without  the  aid  of  a foreign  army, 
is  a circumstance  not  very  grateful  to  our  national  pride.  Yet 
this  is  the  least  degrading  part  of  the  story.  The  shameless 
insincerity  of  the  great  and  noble,  the  Avarm  assurances  of 
general  support  which  James  received,  doAvn  to  the  moment 
of  general  desertion,  indicate  a meanness  of  spirit  and  a loose- 
ness of  morality  most  disgraceful  to  the  age.  That  the 
enterprise  succeeded,  at  least  that  it  succeeded  Avithout 
bloodshed  or  commotion,  Avas  principally  OAving  to  an  act 
of  ungrateful  perfidy,  such  as  no  soldier  had  CA^er  before 
committed,  and  to  those  monstrous  fictions  respecting  the 
birth  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  which  persons  of  the  highest 
rank  were  not  ashamed  to  circulate.  In  all  the  proceedings 
of  the  Convention,  in  the  conference  particularly,  Ave  see 
that  littleness  of  mind  which  is  the  chief  characteristic  of 
the  times.  The  resolutions  on  which  the  tAvo  Houses  at  last 
agreed  Avere  as  bad  as  any  resolutions  for  so  excellent  a 
purpose  could  be.  Their  feeble  and  contradictory  language 
Avas  evidently  intended  to  save  the  credit  of  the  Tories,  Avho 
were  ashamed  to  name  Avhat  they  were  not  ashamed  to  do. 
Through  the  Avhole  transaction  no  commanding  talents  Avere 
displayed  by  any  Englishman  ; no  extraordinary  risks  Avere 
run ; no  sacrifices  were  made  for  the  delwerance  of  the 
nation,  except  the  sacrifice  Avhich  Churchill  made  of  honor, 
and  Anne  of  natural  affection. 

It  was  in  some  sense  fortunate,  as  we  have  already  said, 


SALLAM. 


377 


for  the  Church  of  England,  that  the  Reformation  in  this 
country  was  effected  by  men  who  cared  little  about  religion. 
And,  in  the  same  manner,  it  was  fortunate  for  our  civil  gov- 
ernment that  the  Revolution  was  in  a great  measure  effected 
by  men  who  cared  little  about  their  political  principles.  At 
such  a crisis,  splendid  talents  and  strong  passions  might 
have  done  more  harm  than  good.  There  was  far  greater 
reason  to  fear  that  too  much  would  be  attempted,  and  that 
violent  movements  would  produce  an  equally  violent  reac- 
tion, than  that  too  little  would  be  done  in  the  way  of  change. 
But  narrowness  of  intellect  and  flexibility  of  principle, 
though  they  may  be  serviceable,  can  never  be  respectable. 

If  in  the  Revolution  itself  there  was  little  that  can 
properly  be  called  glorious,  there  v/as  still  less  in  the  events 
which  followed.  In  a church  which  had  as  one  man  de- 
clared the  doctrine  of  resistance  unchristian,  only  four  hun- 
dred persons  refused  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  a gov- 
ernment founded  on  resistance.  In  the  preceding  genera- 
tion, both  the  Episcopal  and  the  Presbyterian  clergy,  rather 
than  concede  points  of  conscience  not  more  important,  had 
resigned  their  livings  by  thousands. 

The  churchmen,  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  justified 
their  conduct  by  all  those  profligate  sophisms  which  are 
called  Jesuitical,  and  which  are  commonly  reckoned  among 
the  peculiar  sins  of  Popery,  but  which  in  fact  are  every- 
where the  anodynes  employed  by  minds  rather  subtle 
than  strong,  to  quiet  those  internal  twinges  which  they 
cannot  but  feel  and  which  they  will  not  obey.  As  the  oath 
taken  by  the  clergy  was  in  the  teeth  of  their  principles,  so 
was  their  conduct  in  the  teeth  of  their  oath.  Their  con- 
stant machinations  against  the  Government  to  which  they 
had  sworn  fidelity  brought  a reproach  on  their  order  and 
on  Christianity  itself.  A distinguished  prelate  has  not 
scrupled  to  say  that  the  rapid  increase  of  infidelity  at  that 
time  was  principally  produced  by  the  disgust  which  the 
faithless  conduct  of  his  brethren  excited  in  men  not  suffi- 
ciently candid  or  judicious  to  discern  the  beauties  of  the 
system  amidst  the  vices  of  its  ministers. 

But  the  reproach  was  not  confined  to  the  Church.  In 
every  political  party,  in  the  Cabinet  itself,  duplicity  and 
perfidy  abounded.  The  very  men  whom  William  loaded 
with  benefits  and  in  whom  he  reposed  most  confidence,  with 
his  seals  of  office  in  their  hands,  kept  up  a correspondence 
with  the  exiled  family.  Orford,  Leeds,  and  Shrewsbury  were 


8VS  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

of  this  odious  troachory.  Even  Devonshire  is  not  ah 
together  free  from  sus{)icion.  It  may  well  ])o  conceived  that, 
at  such  a time,  such  a nature  as  that  of  Marlborougli  would 
riot  in  the  very  luxury  of  })aseiiess.  Jlis  former  treason, 
thoroughly  furnished  with  all  that  makes  infamy  exquisite, 
placed  him  under  the  disadvantage  which  attends  every  artist 
from  the  time  that  he  produces  a masterpiece.  Yet  his 
second  great  stroke  may  excite  wonder,  even  in  those  who 
appreciate  all  the  merit  of  the  first.  Lest  his  admirers  should 
be  able  to  say  that  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution  he  had  be- 
trayed his  King  from  any  other  than  selfish  motives,  he 
proceeded  to  betray  his  country.  Ho  sent  intelligence  to 
the  French  court  of  a secret  expedition  intended  to  attack 
Brest.  The  consequence  was  that  the  expedition  failed,  and 
that  eight  hundred  British  soldiers  lost  their  lives  from  the 
abandoned  villainy  of  a British  general.  Yet  this  man  has 
been  canonized  by  so  many  eminent  writers  that  to  speak  of 
him  as  he  deserves  may  seem  scarcely  decent. 

The  reign  of  William  the  Third,  as  Mr.  Hallam  happily 
says,  was  the  Nadir  of  the  national  prosperity.  It  was  also 
the  Nadir  of  the  national  character.  It  was  the  time  when 
the  rank  harvest  of  vices  sown  during  thirty  years  of  licen- 
tiousness and  confusion  was  gathered  in ; but  it  was  also  the 
seed-time  of  great  virtues. 

The  press  was  emancipated  from  the  censorship  soon 
after  the  Revolution  ; and  the  Government  immediately  fell 
under  the  censorship  of  the  press.  Statesmen  had  a scrutiny 
to  endure  which  was  every  day  becoming  more  and  more 
severe.  The  extreme  violence  of  opinions  abated.  The 
Whigs  learned  moderation  in  office  ; the  Tories  learned  the 
principles  of  liberty  in  opposition.  The  parties  almost  con- 
stantly approximated,  often  met,  sometimes  crossed  each 
other.  There  were  occasional  bursts  of  violence  ; but,  from 
the  time  of  the  Revolution,  those  bursts  were  constantly 
becoming  less  and  less  terrible.  The  severity  with  which 
the  Tories,  at  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Anne,  treated  some  of 
those  who  had  directed  public  aSairs  during  the  war  of  the 
Grand  Alliance,  and  the  retaliatory  measures  of  the  Whigs, 
after  the  accession  of  the  House  of  Hanover,  cannot  be 
justified ; but  they  were  by  no  means  in  the  style  of  the 
infuriated  parties,  whose  alternate  murders  had  disgraced 
our  history  towards  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the 
Second.  At  the  fall  of  Walpole  far  greater  moderation  was 
displayed.  And  from  that  time  it  has  been  the  practice,  a 


HALLAM. 


379 


practice  not  strictly  according  to  the  theory  of  our  Constitu 
tion,  but  still  most  salutary,  to  consider  the  loss  of  office,  and 
the  public  disapprobation,  as  punishments  sufficient  for  errors 
in  the  administration  not  imputable  to  personal  corruption. 
Nothing,  we  believe,  has  contributed  more  than  this  lenity  to 
raise  the  character  of  public  men.  Ambition  is  of  itself  a 
game  sufficiently  hazardous  and  sufficiently  deep  to  inflame 
the  passions  without  adding  property,  life,  and  liberty  to  the 
stake.  Where  the  play  runs  so  desperately  high  as  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  honor  is  at  an  end.  Statesmen,  instead 
of  being  as  they  should  be,  at  once  mild  and  steady,  are  at 
once  ferocious  and  inconsistent.  The  axe  is  for  ever  before 
their  eyes.  A popular  outcry  sometimes  unnerves  them, 
and  sometimes  makes  them  desperate ; it  drives  them  to  un- 
worthy compliances,  or  to  measures  of  vengeance  as  cruel 
as  those  which  they  have  reason  to  expect.  A Minister  in 
our  times  need  not  fear  either  to  be  firm  or  to  be  merciful. 
Our  old  policy  in  this  respect  was  as  absurd  as  that  of  the 
king  in  the  Eastern  tale  who  proclaimed  that  any  physician 
who  pleased  might  come  to  court  and  prescribe  for  his  diseases, 
but  that  if  the  remedies  failed  the  adventurer  should  lose  his 
head.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  how  many  able  men  would  re- 
fuse to  undertake  the  cure  on  such  conditions ; how  much 
the  sense  of  extreme  danger  would  confuse  the  perceptions, 
and  cloud  the  intellect,  of  the  practitioner,  at  the  very  crisis 
which  most  called  for  self-possession,  and  how  strong  his 
temptation  would  b6,  if  he  found  that  he  had  committed  a 
blunder,  to  escape  the  consequences  of  it  by  poisoning  his 
patient. 

But  in  fact  it  would  have  been  impossible,  since  the  Rev- 
olution, to  punish  any  Minister  for  the  general  course  of  his 
policy,  with  the  slightest  semblance  of  justice;  for  since  that 
time  no  Minister  has  been  able  to  pursue  any  general  course 
of  policy  without  the  approbation  of  the  Parliament.  The 
most  important  effects  of  that  great  change  were,  as  Mr.  Hal- 
1am  has  most  truly  said  and  most  ably  shown,  those  which  it 
indirectly  produced.  Thenceforward  it  became  the  interest 
of  the  executive  government  to  protect  those  very  doctrines 
which  an  executive  government  is  in  general  inclined  to 
persecute.  The  sovereign,  the  ministers,  the  courtiers,  at 
last  even  the  universities  and  the  clergy,  were  changed  into 
advocates  of  the  right  of  resistance.  In  the  theory  of  the 
Whigs,  in  the  situation  of  the  Tories  in  the  common  interest 
of  all  public  men,  the  Parliamentary  constitution  of  the  coun- 


380  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

try  found  perfect  security.  The  power  of  the  House  of  Com 
mons,  in  particular,  lias  been  steadily  on  the  increase.  Sincfj 
supplies  have  been  granted  for  short  terms  and  appropriated 
to  particular  services,  the  approbation  of  that  House  has  been 
as  necessary  in  practice  to  the  executive  administration  as  it 
lias  always  been  in  theory  to  taxes  and  to  laws. 

Mr.  Hallam  appears  to  have  begun  with  the  reign  of  Henry 
the  Seventh,  as  the  period  at  which  what  is  called  modern 
history,  in  contradistinction  to  the  history  of  the  middle  ages, 
is  generally  supposed  to  commence.  He  lias  shopped  at 
the  accession  of  George  the  Third,  ‘‘  from  unwillingness,”  as 
he  says,  “ to  excite  the  prejudices  of  modern  politics,  espe- 
cially those  connected  with  personal  character.”  These  two 
eras,  we  think,  deserved  the  distinction  on  other  grounds. 
Our  remote  posterity,  when  looking  back  on  our  history  in 
that  comprehensive  manner  in  which  remote  posterity  alone 
can,  without  much  danger  of  error,  look  back  on  it,  will  prob- 
ably observe  those  points  with  peculiar  interest.  They  are, 
if  we  mistake  not,  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  an  entire 
and  separate  chapter  in  our  annals.  The  period  which  lies 
between  them  is  a perfect  cycle,  a great  year  of  the  public 
mind. 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh,  all  the  political  dif- 
ferences which  had  agitated  England  since  the  Norman 
conquest  seemed  to  be  set  at  rest.  The  long  and  fierce 
struggle  between  the  Crown  and  the  Barons  had  terminated. 
The  grievances  which  had  produced  the  rebellions  of  Tyler 
and  Cade  had  disappeared.  Villainage  was  scarcely  known. 
The  two  royal  houses,  whose  conflicting  claims  had  long 
convulsed  the  kingdom,  were  at  length  united.  The  claim- 
ants whose  pretensions,  just  or  unjust,  had  disturbed  the 
new  settlement,  were  overthroAvn.  In  religion  there  was  no 
open  dissent,  and  probably  A^ery  little  secret  heresy.  The 
old  subject  of  contention,  in  short,  had  vanished;  those 
which  Avere  to  succeed  had  not  yet  appeared. 

Soon,  hoAvcA^er,  new  principles  Avere  announced ; princi- 
ples which  were  destined  to  keep  England  during  two  cen- 
turies and  a half  in  a state  of  commotion.  The  Reformation 
divided  the  people  into  two  great  parties.  The  Protestants 
were  victorious.  They  again  subdivided  themselves.  Po- 
litical factions  were  engrafted  on  theological  sects.  The 
V itual  animosities  of  the  tAvo  parties  gradually  emerged 
hico  the  light  of  public  life.  First  came  conflicts  in  Parlia^ 
ment;  then  ci\dl  war}  then  revolutions  upon  resolutions, 


HALLAM. 


381 


each  attended  hy  its  appurtenance  of  proscriptions,  and  per 
seditions,  and  tests ; each  followed  by  severe  measures 
on  the  ]>art  of  tlie  conquerors  ; each  exciting  a deadly  and 
festering  liatred  in  the  conquered.  During  the  reign  of 
George  the  Second,  things  were  evidently  tending  to  repose. 
At  the  close  of  that  reign,  the  nation  had  completed  the 
gi-eat  revolution  which  commenced  in  the  early  part  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  was  again  at  rest.  The  fury  of  sects 
had  died  away.  The  Catholics  themselves  practically  en- 
joyed toleration  ; and  more  than  toleration  they  did  not  yet 
venture  even  to  desire.  Jacobitism  was  a mere  name.  No- 
body was  left  to  fight  for  that  wretched  cause,  and  very  few 
to  drink  for  it.  The  Constitution,  purchased  so  dearly, 
was  on  every  side  extolled  and  Avorshipped.  Even  those  dis- 
tinctions of  party  Av-hich  must  almost  always  be  found  in  a free 
state  could  scarcely  be  traced.  The  tAvo  great  bodies  Avhich, 
from  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  had  been  gradually  tend- 
ing to  approximation,  were  noAV  united  in  emulous  support 
of  that  splendid  Administration  which  smote  to  the  dust 
both  the  branches  of  the  House  of  Bourbon.  The  great 
battle  for  our  ecclesiastical  and  civil  polity  had  been  fought 
and  won.  The  wounds  had  been  healed.  The  victors  and 
the  vanquished  Avere  rejoicing  together.  Every  person  ac- 
quainted with  the  political  writers  of  the  last  generation 
will  recollect  the  terms  in  which  they  generally  speak  of 
that  time.  It  was  a glimpse  of  a golden  age  of  union  and 
glory,  a short  interval  of  rest,  which  had  been  preceded  by 
centuries  of  agitation,  and  which  centuries  of  agitation  were 
destined  to  follow. 

Hoav  soon  faction  again  began  to  ferment  is  well  known. 
In  the  Letters  of  Junius,  in  Burke’s  Thoughts  on  the  Cause 
of  the  Discontents,  and  in  many  other  Avritings  of  less 
merit,  the  violent  dissensions  AA^hich  speedily  convulsed  the 
country  are  imputed  to  the  system  of  favoritism  which 
George  the  Third  introduced,  to  the  influence  of  Bute,  or 
to  the  profligacy  of  those  who  called  themselves  the  King’s 
friends.  With  all  deference  to  the  eminent  writers  to  whom 
we  have  referred,  we  may  A^enture  to  say  that  they  lived 
too  near  the  events  of  which  they  treated  to  judge  correctly. 
The  schism  Avhich  Avas  then  appearing  in  the  nation,  and 
Avhich  has  been  from  that  time  almost  constantly  widening, 
had  little  in  common  Avith  those  schisms  Avhich  had  divided 
't  <^urlng  the  reigns  of  the  Tudors  and  the  Stuarts.  The 
^ymptoms  of  popular  feeling,  indeed,  Avill  ahvays  be  in  a 


882 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


great  measure  the  same;  but  tlie  principle  wliicli  excited 
that  feeling  was  here  new.  The  support  which  was  given 
to  Wilkes,  the  clamor  for  reform  during  the  American  war, 
the  disaffected  conduct  of  large  classes  of  people  at  the  time 
of  the  Frencli  Revolution,  no  more  resembled  the  opposi- 
tion which  had  been  offered  to  the  government  of  Charles 
the  Second,  than  that  opposition  resembled  the  contest  be- 
tween the  Roses. 

In  the  political  as  in  the  natural  body,  a sensation  is 
often  referred  to  a part  widely  different  from  that  in  which 
it  really  resides.  A man  whose  leg  is  cut  off  fancies  that  he 
feels  a pain  in  his  toe.  And  in  the  same  manner  the  people, 
in  the  earlier  part  of  the  late  reign,  sincerely  attributed 
^heir  discontent  to  grievances  which  had  bee.i  effectually 
lopped  off.  They  imagined  that  the  prerogative  was  too 
strong  for  the  Constitution,  that  the  principles  of  the  Revo- 
lution were  abandoned,  that  the  system  of  the  Stuarts  was 
restored.  Every  impartial  man  must  now  acknowledge 
that  these  charges  were  groundless.  The  conduct  of  the 
Government  with  respect  to  the  Middlesex  election  would 
have  been  contemplated  with  delight  by  the  first  generation 
of  Whigs.  They  would  have  thought  it  a splendid  triumph 
of  the  cause  of  liberty  that  the  King  and  the  Lords  should 
resign  to  the  lower  House  a portion  of  the  legislative  power, 
and  allow  it  to  incapacitate  without  their  consent.  This, 
indeed,  Mr.  Burke  clearly  perceived.  “ When  the  House  of 
Commons,”  says  he,  “ in  an  endeavor  to  obtain  new  advan- 
tages at  the  expense  of  the  other  orders  of  the  state,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  commons  at  large,  have  pursued  strong  meas- 
ures, if  it  were  not  just,  it  was  at  least  natural,  that  the  con- 
stituents should  connive  at  ah  their  proceedings;  because 
we  ourselves  were  ultimately  to  profit.  But  when  this  sub- 
mission is  urged  to  us  in  a contest  between  the  lepresenta- 
tives  and  ourselves,  and  where  nothing  can  be  put  into 
their  scale  which  is  not  taken  from  ours,  they  fancy  us  to  be 
children  when  they  tell  us  that  they  are  our  representatives, 
our  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  that  all  the  stripes  they  give 
us  are  for  our  good.”  These  sentences  contain,  in  fact,  the 
whole  explanation  of  the  mystery.  The  conflict  of  the 
seventeenth  century  was  maintained  by  the  Parliament 
against  the  Crown.  Tlie  conflict  which  commenced  in  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  still  remains  unde- 
cided, and  in  which  our  children  and  grandchildren  Will 
probably  be  called  to  act  or  to  suffer,  is  between  a large 


HISTORY. 


383 


portion  of  the  people  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Crown  and 
the  Parliament  united  on  the  other, 

The  j)rivileges  of  the  House  of  Commons,  those  privileges 
which,  in  1G42,  all  London  rose  in  arms  to  defend,  Avhicli 
tJie  people  considered  as  synonymous  with  their  own  liber- 
ties, and  in  comparison  of  which  they  took  no  account  of  the 
most  precious  and  sacred  principles  of  English  jurisprudence, 
have  now  become  nearly  as  odious  as  the  rigors  of  martial 
law.  That  power  of  committing  which  the  people  anciently 
loved  to  see  the  House  of  Commons  exercise,  is  now,  at 
least  when  employed  against  libellers,  the  most  unpopular 
power  in  the  Constitution.  If  the  Commons  were  to  suffer 
the  Lords  to  amend  money-bills,  we  do  not  believe  that  the 
people  would  care  one  straw  about  the  matter.  If  they 
were  to  suffer  the  Lords  even  to  originate  money-bills,  we 
doubt  whether  such  a surrender  of  their  constitutional 
rights  would  excite  half  so  much  dissatisfaction  as  the  ex- 
clusion of  strangers  from  a single  important  discussion. 
The  gallery  in  which  the  reporters  sit  has  become  a fourth 
estate  of  the  realm.  The  publication  of  the  debates,  a^prac- 
tice  which  seemed  to  the  most  liberal  statesman  of  the  old 
school  full  of  danger  to  the  great  safeguards  of  public  lib- 
erty, IS  now  regarded  by  many  persons  as  a safeguard  tanta- 
mount, and  more  than  tantamount,  to  all  the  rest  together. 

Burke,  in  a speech  on  parliamentary  reform,  which  is  the 
more  remarkable  because  it  was  delivered  long  before  the 
French  Revolution,  has  described,  in  striking  language,  the 
change  in  public  feeling  of  which  we  speak.  “ It  suggests 
melancholy  reflections,”  sa}'s  he,  “in  consequence  of  the 
strange  course  we  have  long  held,  that  we  are  now  no  longer 
quarrelling  about  the  character,  or  about  the  conduct  of  men, 
01’  the  tenor  of  measures ; but  we  are  grown  out  of  humor 
with  the  English  Constitution  itself;  this  is  become  the 
object  of  the  animosity  of  Englishmen.  This  constitution 
in  former  days  used  to  be  the  envy  of  the  world ; it  was  the 
pattern  for  politicians  ; the  theme  of  the  eloquent ; the  med- 
itation of  the  philosopher  in  every  part  of  the  w^orld.  As  to 
Englishmen,  it  was  their  pride,  their  consolation.  By  it 
they  lived,  and  for  it  they  were  ready  to  die.  Its  defects, 
if  it  had  any,  were  partly  covered  by  partiality,  and  partly 
borne  by  prudence.  Now  all  its  excellencies  are  forgot,  its 
faults  are  forcibly  dragged  into  day,  exaggerated  by  every 
artifice  of  misrepresentation.  It  is  despised  and  rejected 
of  men  ; and  every  device  and  invention  of  ingenuity  or 


884 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS* 


idleness  is  set  up  in  opposition,  or  in  preference  to  it.”  We 
neither  adopt  nor  condeinn  tlie  laiigiuii^e  of  reprobati^nj 
which  the  great  orator  liere  employs.  We  call  liim  only  as 
a witness  to  the  fact.  That  the  revolution  of  public  feeling 
which  he  describes  was  then  in  progress  is  indisputable  ; and 
it  is  equally  indisputable,  we  think,  that  it  is  in  progress  still. 

To  investigate  and  classify  the  causes  of  so  great  a 
change  would  require  far  more  thought,  and  far  more  space, 
than  w^e  at  present  have  to  bestow.  But  some  of  them  are 
obvious.  During  the  contest  which  the  Parliament  carried 
on  against  the  Stuarts,  it  had  only  to  check  and  complain. 
It  has  since  had  to  govern.  As  an  attacking  body,  it  could 
select  its  points  of  attack,  and  it  naturally  chose  those  on 
which  it  was  likely  to  receive  public  support.  As  a ruling 
body,  it  has  neither  the  same  liberty  of  choice,  nor  the  same 
motives  to  gratify  the  people.  With  the  power  of  an  exec- 
utive government,  it  has  drawn  to  itself  some  of  the  vices, 
and  all  the  unpopularity  of  an  executive  government.  On 
the  House  of  Commons  above  all,  possessed  as  it  is  of  the 
public  purse,  and  consequently  of  the  public  sword,  the  na- 
tion throws  all  the  blame  of  an  ill  conducted  war,  of  a blun- 
dering negotiation,  of  a disgraceful  treaty,  of  an  embarrassing 
commercial  crisis.  The  delays  of  the  Court  of  Chancery, 
the  misconduct  of  a judge  at  Van  Diemen’s  Land,  any 
thing,  in  short,  which  in  any  part  of  the  administration  any 
person  feels  as  a grievance,  is  attributed  to  the  tyranny,  or 
at  least  to  the  negligence,  of  that  all-powerful  body.  Private 
individuals  pester  it  with  their  wrongs  and  claims.  A mei- 
chant  appeals  to  it  from  the  Courts  of  Rio  Janeiro  or  St. 
Petersburgh.  A historical  painter  comjjlains  to  it  that  his 
department  of  art  finds  no  encouragement.  Anciently  the 
Parliament  resembled  a member  of  opposition,  from  whom 
no  places  are  expected,  who  is  not  expected  to  confer  favors 
and  propose  measures,  but  merely  to  watch  and  censure, 
and  who  may,  therefore,  unless  he  is  grossly  injudicious,  bo 
popular  with  the  great  body  of  the  community.  The  Par- 
liament now  resembles  the  same  person  put  into  office,  sur- 
rounded by  petitioners  whom  twenty  times  his  patronage 
would  not  satisfy,  stunned  with  complaints,  buried  in  memo- 
rials, compelled  by  the  duties  of  his  station  to  bring  forward 
measures  similar  to  those  which  he  was  formerly  accustomed 
to  observe  and  to  check,  and  perpetually  encountered  by 
objections  similar  to  those  which  it  was  formerly  his  busi- 
ness to  raise. 


Dallam. 


385 


Perhaps  it  may  be  laid  down  as  a general  rule  that  a 
legislative  assembl} , not  constituted  on  democratical  princi- 
ples, cannot  be  popular  long  after  it  ceases  to  be  weak.  Its 
zeal  for  what  the  people,  rightly  or  wrongly,  conceive  to  be 
their  interests,  its  sympathy  with  their  mutable  and  violent 
passions,  are  merely  the  effects  of  the  particular  circum- 
stances in  which  it  is  placed.  As  long  as  it  depends  for  ex- 
istence on  the  public  favor,  it  will  employ  all  the  means  in  its 
power  to  conciliate  that  favor.  While  this  is  the  case,  de- 
fects in  its  constitution  are  of  little  consequence.  But,  as 
the  close  union  of  such  a body  with  the  nation  is  the  effect 
of  an  identity  of  interests  not  essential  but  accidental,  it  is 
in  some  measure  dissolved  from  the  time  at  which  the  daii« 
ger  which  produced  it  ceases  to  exist. 

Hence,  before  the  Revolution,  the  question  of  Parliamen- 
tary reform  was  of  very  little  importance.  The  friends  of 
liberty  had  no  very  ardent  wish  for  reform.  The  strongest 
Tories  saw  no  objections  to  it.  It  is  remarkable  that  Clar- 
endon loudly  applauds  the  changes  which  Cromwell  intro- 
duced, changes  far  stronger  than  the  Whigs  of  the  present 
day  would  in  general  approve.  There  is  no  reason  to  think, 
however,  that  the  reform  effected  by  Cromwell  made  any 
great  difference  in  the  conduct  of  the  Parliament.  Indeed, 
if  the  House  of  Commons  had,  during  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second,  been  elected  by  universal  suffrage,  or  if  all  the 
seats  had  been  put  up  to  sale,  as  in  the  French  Parliaments, 
it  would,  vve  suspect,  have  acted  very  much  as  it  did.  We 
know  how  strongly  the  Parliament  of  Paris  exerted  itself  in 
favor  of  the  people  on  many  important  occasions ; and  the 
reason  is  evident.  Though  it  did  not  emanate  from  the 
people,  its  whole  consequence  depended  on  the  support  of 
the  people. 

From  the  time  of  the  Revolution  the  House  of  Commons 
has  been  gradually  becoming  what  it  now  is,  a great  council 
of  state,  containing  many  members  chosen  freely  by  the 
people,  and  many  others  anxious  to  acquire  the  favor  of 
the  people ; but,  on  the  whole,  aristocratical  in  its  temper 
and  interests.  It  is  very  far  from  being  an  illiberal  and 
stupid  oligarchy  ; but  it  is  equally  far  from  being  an  express 
image  of  the  general  feeling.  It  is  influenced  by  the  opinion 
of  the  people,  and  influenced  powerfully,  but  slowly  and 
circuitously.  Instead  of  outrunning  the  public  mind,  as  be- 
fore the  Re  'ution  it  frequently  did,  it  now  follows  with 
slow  steps  and  at  a wide  distance.  It  is  therefore  neces- 
VoL.  I.—25 


386 


MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sarily  unpopular  ; and  the  more  so  because  llic  good  which  it 
produces  is  much  less  evident  to  common  perception  than  the 
evil  which  it  inilicts.  It  bears  the  blame  of  all  the  mischief 
which  is  done,  or  supposed  to  be  done,  by  its  author  it}'  or  by 
its  connivance.  It  does  not  get  the  credit,  on  the  other 
hand,  of  having  prevented  those  innumerable  abuses  which 
do  not  exist  solely  because  the  House  of  Commons  exists. 

A large  part  of  the  nation  is  certainly  desirous  of  a re- 
form in  the  representative  system.  How  large  that  part 
may  be,  and  how  strong  its  desires  on  the  subject  may  be, 
it  is  difficult  to  say.  It  is  only  at  intervals  that  the  clamor 
on  the  subject  is  loud  and  vehement.  But  it  seems  to  us 
that,  during  the  remissions,  the  feeling  gathers  strength,  and 
that  every  successive  burst  is  more  violent  than  that  which 
preceded  it.  The  public  attention  may  be  for  a time 
diverted  to  the  Catholic  claims  or  the  Mercantile  code ; but 
it  is  probable  that  at  no  very  distant  period,  perhaps  in  the 
lifetime  of  the  present  generation,  all  other  questions  will 
merge  in  that  which  is,  in  a certain  degree,  connected  with 
them  all. 

Already  we  seem  to  ourselves  to  perceive  the  signs  of  un- 
quiet times,  the  vague  presentiment  of  something  great  and 
strange  which  pervades  the  community,  the  restless  and 
turbid  hopes  of  those  who  have  everything  to  gain,  the 
dimly  hinted  forebodings  of  those  who  have  everything  to 
lose.  Many  indications  might  be  mentioned,  in  themselves 
indeed  as  insignificant  as  straws ; but  even  the  direction  of 
a straw,  to  borrow  the  illustration  of  Bacon,  will  show  from 
what  quarter  the  storm  is  setting  in. 

A great  statesman  might,  by  judicious  and  timely  refor- 
mations, by  reconciling  the  two  great  branches  of  the 
natural  aristocracy,  the  capitalists  and  the  landowners,  and 
by  so  widening  the  base  of  the  government  as  to  interest  in 
its  defence  the  whole  of  the  middle  class,  that  brave,  honest, 
and  sound-hearted  class,  which  is  as  anxious  for  the  main- 
tenance of  order  and  the  security  of  property,  as  it  is  hostile 
to  corruption  and  oppression,  succeed  in  averting  a struggle 
to  which  no  rational  friend  of  liberty  or  of  law  can  k)ok 
forward  without  great  apprehensions.  There  are  those  who 
will  be  contented  with  nothing  but  demolition ; and  there 
are  those  who  shrink  from  all  repair.  There  are  innovators 
who  long  for  a President  and  a National  Convention ; and 
there  are  bigots  wffio,  while  cities  larger  and  richer  than  the 
capitals  of  many  great  kijigdoms  are  calling  out  for  repre- 


HALLAM. 


S87 


sentatives  to  watch  over  their  interests,  select  some  hack- 
neyed jobber  in  boroughs,  some  peer  of  the  narrowest  and 
smallest  mind,  as  the  fittest  depositary  of  a forfeited  fran- 
chise. Between  these  extremes  there  lies  a more  excellent 
way.  Time  is  bringing  round  another  crisis  analogous  to 
that  which  occurred  in  the  seventeenth  century.  We  stand 
in  a situation  similar  to  that  in  which  our  ancestors  stood 
under  the  reign  of  James  the  First.  It  will  soon  again  be 
necessary  to  reform  that  w^e  may  preserve,  to  save  the  fun- 
damental principles  of  the  Constitution  by  alterations  in  the 
subordinate  parts.  It  will  then  be  possible,  as  it  was  pos- 
sible two  hundred  years  ago,  to  protect  vested  rights,  to 
secure  every  useful  institution,  every  institution  endeared 
by  antiquity  and  noble  associations,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  introduce  into  the  system  improvements  harmonizing 
with  the  original  plan.  It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  two 
hundred  years  have  made  us  wiser. 

We  know  of  no  great  revolution  which  might  not  have 
been  prevented  by  compromise  early  and  graciously  made. 
Firmness  is  a great  virtue  in  public  affairs ; but  it  has  its 
proper  sphere.  Conspiracies  and  insurrections  in  w^hicb 
small  minorities  are  engaged,  the  outbreakings  of  popular 
violence  unconnected  with  any  extensive  pioject  or  any 
durable  principle,  are  best  repressed  by  vigor  and  decision. 
To  shrink  from  them  is  to  make  them  formidable.  But  no 
wise  ruler  will  confound  the  pervading  taint  with  the  slight 
local  irritation.  No  wise  ruler  will  treat  the  deeply  seated 
discontents  of  a great  party,  as  he  treats  the  fury  of  a mob 
which  destroys  mills  and  power-looms.  The  neglect  of  this 
distinction  has  been  fatal  even  to  governments  strong  in  the 
power  of  the  sword.  The  present  time  is  indeed  a time  of 
peace  and  order.  But  it  is  at  such  a time  that  fools  are 
most  thoughtless  and  wise  men  most  thoughtful.  That  the 
discontents  which  have  agitated  the  country  during  the  late 
and  the  present  reign,  and  which,  though  not  always  noisy, 
are  never  wholly  dormant,  will  again  break  forth  with 
aggravated  symptoms,  is  almost  as  certain  as  that  the  tides 
and  seasons  will  follow  their  appointed  course.  But  in  all 
movements  of  the  human  mind  which  tend  to  great  revolu- 
tions, there  is  a crisis  at  which  moderate  concession  may 
amend,  conciliate,  and  preserve.  Happy  wdll  it  be  for  Eng- 
land if,  at  that  crisis,  her  interests  be  confided  to  men  for 
whom  history  has  not  recorded  the  long  series  of  tiimian 
crimes  and  follies  in  vain. 


388 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wuitinus. 


MILL  ON  GOVERNMENT  * 

{Edinburgh  Review  ^ March  ^ 1829.) 

Of  those  philosophers  who  call  themselves  Utilitarians, 
and  whom  others  generally  call  Benthamites,  Mr.  Mill  is, 
with  the  exception  of  the  illustrious  founder  of  the  sect,  by 
far  the  most  distinguished.  The  little  work  now  before  us 
contains  a summary  of  the  opinions  held  by  this  gentleman 
and  his  brethren  on  several  subjects  most  important  to 
society.  All  the  seven  essays  of  which  it  consists  abound  in 
curious  matter.  But  at  present  we  intend  to  confine  our 
remarks  to  the  Treatise  on  Government,  which  stands  first 
in  the  volume.  On  some  future  occasion,  we  may  perhaps 
attempt  to  do  justice  to  the  rest. 

It  must  be  owned  that  to  do  justice  to  any  composition 
of  Mr.  Mill  is  not,  in  the  opinion  of  his  admirers,  a very  easy 
task.  They  do  not,  indeed,  place  him  in  the  same  rank  with 
Mr.  Bentham;  but  the  terms  in  which  they  extol  the  dis- 
ciple, though  feeble  when  compared  with  the  hyperboles  of 
adoration  employed  by  them  in  speaking  of  the  master,  are 
as  strong  as  any  sober  man  would  allow  himself  to  use  con- 
cerning Locke  or  Bacon.  The  essay  before  us  is  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable  of  the  works  to  which  Mr.  Mill  owes 
his  fame.  By  the  members  of  his  sect,  it  is  considered  as 
•perfect  and  unanswerable.  Every  part  of  it  is  an  article  of 
their  faith ; and  the  damnatory  clauses,  in  which  their  creed 
abounds  far  beyond  any  theological  symbol  wdth  which  we 
are  acquainted,  are  strong  and  full  against  all  who  reject 
any  portion  of  what  is  so  irrefragably  established.  No 
man,  they  maintain,  who  has  understanding  sufficient  to 
carry  him  through  the  first  proposition  of  Euclid,  can  read 
this  master-piece  of  demonstration  and  honestly  declare  that 
he  remains  unconvinced. 

We  have  formed  a very  different  opinion  of  this  w'ork. 
We  think  that  the  theory  of  Mr.  Mill  rests  altogether  on 

* Essays  on  Government^  Jurisprudence ^ the  Liberty  of  the  Press,  Prisons  and 
Prison  Discipline,  Colonies,  the  Law  of  Nations,  and  Education.  By  James 
Mill,  Esq.,  author  of  the  History  of  British  India.  Reprinted  by  permission 
from  the  Supplement  to  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica.  (Not  for  sale.)  London. 
18^, 


mill’s  essay  on  government.  389 

false  principles,  and  that  even  on  those  false  principles  he 
does  not  reason  logically.  Nevertheless,  we  do  not  think  it 
strange  that  his  speculations  should  have  filled  the  Utili- 
tarians with  admiration.  We  have  been  for  some  time  j)ast 
inclined  to  susj)cct  tliat  these  people,  whom  some  regard  as 
the  lights  of  the  world  and  others  as  incarnate  demons,  are 
in  general  ordinary  men,  with  narrow  understandings  and 
little  information.  The  contempt  which  they  express  for 
elegant  literature  is  evidently  the  contempt  of  ignorance. 
We  appreliend  that  many  of  them  are  persons  who,  having 
read  little  or  nothing,  are  delighted  to  be  rescued  from  the 
sense  of  their  own  inferiority  by  some  teacher  who  assures 
them  that  the  studies  which  they  have  neglected  arc  of  no 
value,  puts  five  or  six  phrases  into  their  mouths,  lends  them 
an  odd  number  of  the  Westminster  Review,  and  ir.  a month 
transforms  them  into  philosophers.  Mingled  with  these 
smatterers,  whose  attainments  just  suffice  to  elevate  them 
from  the  insignificance  of  dunces  to  the  dignity  of  bores, 
and  to  spread  dismay  among  their  pious  aunts  and  grand- 
mothers, there  are,  we  well  know,  many  w’ell-meaning  men 
who  have  really  read  and  thought  much  but  whose  reading 
and  meditation  have  been  almost  exclusively  confined  to  one 
class  of  subjects;  and  who,  consequently,  though  they  pos- 
sess much  valuable  knowl  respecting  those  subjects,  are 
by  no  means  so  well  qualified  to  judge  of  a great  system  as 
if  they  had  taken  a more  enlarged  view  of  literature  and 
society. 

Nothing  is  more  amusing  or  instructive  than  to  observe 
the  manner  in  which  people  wdio  think  themselves  wiser 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  fall  into  snares  which  the 
simple  good  sense  of  their  neighbors  detects  and  avoic^s.  It 
is  one  of  the  principal  tenets  of  the  Utilitarians  that  senti- 
ment and  eloquence  serve  only  to  impede  the  pursuit  of 
truth.  They  therefore  affect  a quakerly  plainness,  or  rather 
a cynical  negligence  and  impurity,  of  style.  The  strongest 
arguments,  when  clothed  in  brilliant  language,  seem  to  them 
oo  much  wordy  nonsense.  In  the  mean  time  they  surren- 
der their  understandings,  with  a facility  found  in  no  other 
party,  to  the  moenest  and  most  abject  sophism,  provided 
those  sophisms  come  before  them  disguised  with  the  exter- 
nals of  demonstration.  They  do  not  seem  to  know  that 
logic  has  its  illusions  as  well  as  rhetoric, — that  a fallacy 
may  lurk  in  a syllogism  as  well  as  in  a metaphor. 

Mr.  Mill  is  exactly  the  writer  to  please  peoide  of  thi® 


390  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

description.  Ilis  arguments  are  stated  with  the  utmost 
atiectation  of  precision;  his  divisions  are  awfully  formal; 
and  his  style  is  generally  as  dry  as  that  of  Euclid’s  Elements. 
Whether  this  he  a merit,  we  must  be  permitted  to  doubt. 
Thus  much  is  certain : that  the  ages  in  which  the  true  prin. 
ciples  of  philosophy  were  least  understood  w^ere  those  in 
w^hich  the  ceremonial  of  logic  w as  most  strictly  observed, 
and  that  the  time  from  which  we  date  the  rapid  progress  of 
the  experimental  sciences  was  also  the  time  at  which  a less 
exact  and  formal  w^ay  of  writing  came  into  use. 

The  style  which  the  Utilitarians  admire  suits  only  those 
subjects  on  which  it  is  impossible  to  reason  a priori.  It 
grew  up  with  the  verbal  sophistry  which  flourished  during 
the  dark  ages.  With  that  sopfliistry  it  fell  before  the 
Baconian  philosophy  in  the  day  of  the  great  deliverance  of 
the  human  mind.  The  inductive  method  not  only  endured 
but  required  greater  freedom  of  diction.  It  w^as  impossible 
to  reason  from  phenomena  up  to  principles,  to  mark  slight 
shades  of  difference  in  quality,  or  to  estimate  the  compara- 
tive effect  of  tw^o  opposite  considerations  betw^een  which 
there  was  no  common  measure,  by  means  of  the  naked  and 
meagre  jargon  of  the  schoolmen.  Of  those  schoolmen  Mr. 
Mill  has  inherited  both  the  spirit  and  the  style.  He  is  an 
Aristotelian  of  the  fifteenth  century,  born  out  of  due  season. 
We  have  here  an  elaborate  treatise  on  Government,  from 
which,  but  for  tw^o  or  three  passing  allusions,  it  would  not 
apjDear  that  the  author  was  aware  that  any  governments 
actually  existed  among  men.  Certain  propensities  of  human 
nature  are  assumed:  and  from  these  premises  the  whole 
science  of  politics  is  synthetically  deduced!  We  can 
^scarcely  persuade  ourselves  that  w^e  are  not  reading  a book 
written  before  the  time  of  Bacon  and  Galileo, — a book 
written  in  those  days  in  w^hich  physicians  reasoned  from 
the  nature  of  heat  to  the  treatment  of  fever,  and  astron- 
omers proved  syllogistically  that  the  planets  could  have  no 
mdependeiit  motion, — because  the  heavens  were  incorrupt- 
ible, and  nature  abhorred  a vacuum  ! 

The  reason,  too,  wdiich  Mr.  Mill  has  assigned  for  taking 
Ibis  course  strikes  us  as  a most  extraordinary. 

Experience,”  says  he,  “ if  w^e  look  only  at  the  outside 
of  the  facts,  ajipears  to  be  divided  on  this  subject.  Absolute 
monarchy,  under  Neros  and  Caligulas,  under  such  men  as 
tbo  Emperors  of  Morocco  and  Sultans  of  Turkey,  is  the 
^‘Courge  of  human  nature.  On  the  other  side,  the  people  of 


mill’s  essay  on  government. 


391 


Denmark,  tired  out  with  the  oppression  of  an  aristocracy, 
resolved  that  their  king  should  be  absolute  ; and,  under  their 
absolute  monarch,  are  as  well  governed  as  any  people  in 
Europe.” 

This  Mr.  Mill  actually  gives  as  a reason  for  pursuing  the 
a priori  method.  But,  in  our  judgment,  the  very  circum- 
stances which  he  mentions  irresistibly  prove  that  the  a 
priori  method  is  altogether  unfit  for  investigations  of  this 
kind,  and  that  the  only  wa}^  to  arrive  at  the  truth  is  by 
induction.  Experience  can  never  be  divided,  or  even  ap- 
pear to  be  divided,  except  with  reference  to  some  hypothesis. 
When  we  say  that  one  fact  is  inconsistent  with  another  fact, 
we  mean  onlj"  that  it  is  inconsistent  with  the  theory  which 
we  have  founded  on  that  other  fact.  But,  if  the  fact  be 
certain,  the  unavoidable  conclusion  is  that  our  theory  is 
false  ; and,  in  order  to  correct  it,  we  must  reason  back  from 
an  enlarged  collection  of  facts  to  principles. 

Now  here  we  have  two  governments  which,  by  Mr.  Mill’s 
own  account,  come  under  the  same  head  in  his  theoretical 
classification.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that,  by  reasoning 
on  that  theoretical  classification,  we  shall  be  brought  to  the 
conclusion  that  these  two  forms  of  government  must  produce 
the  same  effect.  But  Mr.  Mill  himself  tells  us  that  they  do 
not  produce  the  same  effect.  Hence  he  infers  that  the  only 
way  to  get  at  truth  is  to  place  implicit  confidence  in  that 
chain  of  proof  a priori  from  which  it  appears  that  they 
must  produce  the  same  effects ! To  believe  at  once  in  a 
theory  and  in  a fact  which  contradicts  it  is  an  exercise  of 
faith  sufficently  hard  : but  to  believe  in  a theory  because  a 
fact  contradicts  it  is  what  neither  philosopher  nor  pope  ever 
before  required.  This,  however,  is  what  Mr.  Mill  demands 
of  us.  He  seems  to  think  that,  if  all  despots,  without  excep- 
tion, governed  ill,  it  would  be  unnecessary  to  prove,  by  a 
Bynthetical  argument,  what  would  then  be  sufficiently  clear 
from  experience.  But,  as  some  despots  will  be  so  perverse 
as  to  govern  well,  he  finds  himself  compelled  to  prove  the 
impossibility  of  their  governing  well  by  that  synthetical  ar- 
gument which  would  have  been  superfluous  had  not  the 
facts  contradicted  it.  He  reasons  a priori^  because  the  phe- 
nomena are  not  what,  by  reasoning  a priori^  he  will  prove 
them  to  be.  In  other  words,  he  reasons  a priori^  because, 
6y  so  reasoning,  he  is  certain  to  arrive  at  a false  conclu- 
sion ! 

In  the  course  of  the  examination  to  which  we  propose  to 


392  MACXtJLAY’s  MlSCELLANEOtrS  WRITINGS. 

subject  tlie  specula  ions  of  Mr.  Mill  we  shall  have  to  notice 
many  other  curious  instances  of  that  turn  of  mind  which 
the  passage  above  quoted  indicates. 

The  first  chapter  of  his  Essay  relates  to  the  ends  of  gov- 
er'  ment.  The  conception  on  this  subject,  he  tells  us,  which 
exists  in  the  minds  of  most  men  is  vague  and  undistinguish- 
ing. He  assumes,  justly  enough,  that  the  end  of  government 
is  “to  increase  to  the  utmost  the  pleasures,  and  diminish  to 
the  utmost  the  pains,  which  men  derive  from  each  other.” 
He  then  proceeds  to  show,  with  great  form,  that  “ the  great- 
est possible  happiness  of  society  is  attained  by  insuring  to 
every  man  the  greatest  possible  quantity  of  the  produce  of 
his  labor.”  To  effect  this  is,  in  his  opinion,  the  end  of  gov- 
ernment. It  is  remarkable  that  Mr.  Mill,  with  all  his  af- 
fected display  of  precision,  has  here  given  a description  of 
the  ends  of  government  far  less  precise  than  that  which  is 
in  the  mouths  of  the  vulgar.  The  first  man  with  whom  Mr, 
Mill  may  travel  in  a stage  coach  will  tell  him  that  govern- 
ment exists  for  the  protection  of  the  persons  and  property 
of  men.  But  Mr.  Mill  seems  to  think  that  the  preservation 
of  property  is  the  first  and  only  object.  It  is  true,  doubtless, 
that  many  of  the  injuries  which  are  offered  to  the  persons 
of  men  proceed  from  a desire  to  possess  their  property. 
But  the  practice  of  vindictive  assassination  as  it  has  existed 
in  some  parts  of  Europe — the  practice  of  fighting  wanton 
and  sanguinary  duels,  like  those  of  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  in  which  bands  of  seconds  risked  their  lives 
as  well  as  the  principals ; — these  practices,  and  many  others 
which  might  be  named,  are  evidently  injurious  to  society ; 
and  we  do  not  see  how  a government  which  tolerated  them 
could  be  said  “ to  diminish  to  the  utmost  the  pains  which 
men  derive  from  each  other.”  Therefore,  according  to  Mr. 
Mill’s  very  correct  assumption,  such  a government  would 
not  perfectly  accomplish  the  end  of  its  institution.  Yet 
such  a government  might,  as  far  as  we  can  perceive,  “ insure 
to  every  man  the  greatest  possible  quantity  of  the  produce 
of  his  labor.”  Therefore  such  a government  might,  accordo 
ing  to  Mr.  Mill’s  subsequent  doctrine,  perfectly  accomplish 
the  end  of  its  institution.  The  matter  is  not  of  much  con- 
sequence, except  as  an  instance  of  that  slovenliness  of  think- 
ing which  is  often  concealed  beneath  a peculiar  ostentation 
of  logical  neatness. 

^ Having  determined  the  ends,  Mr.  Mill  proceeds  to  con- 
sider the  means.  Eor  the  preservation  of  property  some 


m:ll’s  essay  on  government. 


393 


portion  of  the  community  must  be  intrusted  with  power. 
This  is  Government ; and  the  question  is,  how  are  tliose  to 
whom  the  necessary  power  is  intrusted  to  be  prevented 
from  abusing  it  ? 

Mr.  Mill  first  passes  in  review  the  sim2)le  forms  of  gov- 
ernment. He  allows  that  it  would  be  inconvenient,  if  not 
jdiysically  impossible,  that  the  Avhole  community  should 
meet  in  a mass ; it  follows,  therefore,  that  the  poAvers  of 
government  cannot  be  directly  exercised  by  the  people. 
But  he  sees  no  objection  to  pure  and  direct  Democracy,  ex- 
cept the  difficulties  Avhich  we  have  mentioned. 

“ The  community,”  says  he,  “ cannot  have  an  interest 
opposite  to  its  interests.  To  affirm  this  Avould  be  a contra- 
diction in  terms.  The  community  within  itself,  and  with 
respect  to  itself,  can  haA^e  no  sinister  interests.  One  com- 
munity may  intend  the  evil  of  another ; never  its  own. 
This  is  an  indubitable  proposition,  and  one  of  great  impor- 
tance.” 

Mr.  Mill  then  proceeds  to  demonstrate  that  a purely 
aristocratical  form  of  government  is  necessarily  bad. 

“ The  reavSoii  for  which  government  exists  is,  that  one  man,  if  stronger 
than  another,  will  take  from  him  whatever  that  other  possesses  and  he  de- 
sires. But  if  one  man  will  do  this,  so  will  several.  And  if  powers  are  put 
into  the  hands  of  a comparatively  small  number,  called  an  aristocracy, — 
powers  which  make  them  stronger  than  the  rest  of  the  community,  they  will 
lake  from  the  rest  of  the  community  as  much  as  thej^  pleased  of  the  objects 
of  desire.  They  will  thus  defeat  the  very  end  for  which  government  was 
instituted.  The  unfitness,  therefore,  of  aii  aristocracy  to  be  intrusted  with 
the  powers  of  government,  rests  on  demonstration.*’ 

In  exactly  the  same  manner  Mr.  Mill  proves  absolute 
monarchy  to  be  a bad  form  of  gOA^ernment. 

“ If  government  is  founded  upon  this  as  a law  of  human  nature,  that  a 
man,  if  able,  will  take  from  others  anything  which  they  have  and  he  desires, 
it  is  sufficiently  evident,  that  when  a man  is  called  a king  he  does  not  change 
his  nature;  so  that  when  he  has  got  power  enough  to  enable  him  to  take 
from  every  man  whatever  he  pleases,  he  will  take  whatever  he  pleases.  To 
suppose  that  he  will  not,  is  to  affirm  that  government  is  unnecessary,  and 
that  human  beings  will  abstain  from  injuring  one  another  of  their  own 
accord. 

“It  is  very  evident  that  this  reasoning  extends  to  every  modification  of 
the  smaller  number.  AVhenever  the  powers  of  government  are  placed  in  any 
hands  other  than  those  of  the  community,  whether  those  of  one  man,  or  of 
a few,  or  of  several,  those  principles  of  human  nature  wdiich  imply  that 
government  is  at  all  necessary,  imply  that  those  persons  will  make  use  of 
them  to  defeat  the  very  end  for  which  government  exists.” 

But  is  it  not  possible  that  a king  or  an  aristocracy  may 
soon  be  saturated  with  the  objects  of  their  desires,  and  may 
then  protect  the  community  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  rest  ? 


394  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Mr.  Mill  answers  in  the  negative.  lie  proves,  witli  great 
pomp,  that  every  man  desires  to  have  the  actions  of  evttry 
other  correspondent  to  his  will.  Others  can  be  induced  to 
conform  to  our  will  only  by  motives  derived  from^pleasure 
or  from  pain.  The  infliction  of  pain  is  a direct  injury  ; and, 
even  if  it  take  a milder  course,  in  order  to  produce  obedi- 
ence by  motives  derived  from  pleasure,  the  government 
must  confer  favors.  But,  as  there  is  no  limit  to  its  desire  of 
obedience,  there  will  be  no  limit  to  its  disposition  to  confer 
favors ; and,  as  it  can  confer  favors  only  by  plundering  the 
people,  there  will  be  no  limit  to  its  disposition  to  plunder 
the  people.  “It  is  therefore  not  true  that  there  is  in  the 
mind  of  a king,  or  in  the  minds  of  an  aristocracy,  any  point 
of  saturation  with  the  objects  of  desire.” 

Mr.  Mill  then  proceeds  to  show  that,  as  monarchical  and 
oligarchical  governments  can  influence  men  by  motives 
drawn  from  pain,  as  well  as  by  motives  drawn  from 
pleasure,  they  will  carry  their  cruelty,  as  well  as  their 
rapacity,  to  a frightful  extent.  As  he  seems  greatly  to  ad- 
mire his  own  reasonings  on  this  subject,  we  think  it  but  fair 
to  let  him  speak  for  himself. 

“ The  chain  of  inference  in  this  case  is  close  and  strong  to  a most  unusual 
degree.  A man  desires  that  the  actions  of  other  men  shall  be  instantly  and 
accurately  correspondent  to  his  will.  He  desires  that  the  actions  of  the 
greatest  possible  number  shall  be  so.  Terror  is  the  grand  instrument. 
Terror  can  work  only  through  assurance  that  evil  will  follow  any  failure  of 
cenformity  between  the  will  and  the  actions  willed.  Every  failure  must 
therefore  be  punished.  As  there  are  no  bounds  to  the  mind’s  desire  of  its 
pleasure,  there  are,  of  course,  no  bounds  to  its  desire  of  perfection  in  the 
instruments  of  that  pleasure.  There  are,  therefore,  no  bounds  to  its  desire 
of  exactness  in  the  conformity  between  its  will  and  the  actions  willed;  and 
by  consequence  to  the  strength  of  that  terror  which  is  its  procuring  cause. 
Every  the  most  minute  failure  must  be  visited  with  the  heaviest  infliction; 
and  as  failure  in  extreme  exactness  must  frequently  happen,  the  occasions 
of  cruelty  must  be  incessant. 

“ We  have  thus  arrived  at  several  conclusions  of  the  highest  possible 
importance.  We  have  seen  that  the  principle  of  human  nature,  upon  which 
the  necessity  of  government  is  founded,  the  propensity  of  one  man  to  possess 
himself  of  the  objects  of  desire  at  the  cost  of  another,  leads  on,  by  infallible 
sequence,  where  power  over  a community  is  attained,  and  nothing  checks, 
not  only  to  that  degree  of  plunder  which  leaves  the  members  (excepting 
always  the  recipients  and  instruments  of  the  plunder)  the  bare  means  of 
subsistence,  but  to  that  degree  of  cruelty  which  is  necessary  to  keep  in  ex- 
istence the  most  intense  terrors.” 

Now,  no  man  wlio  has  the  least  knowledge  of  the  real 
state  of  the  world,  either  in  former  ages  or  at  the  present 
moment,  can  possibly  be  convinced,  though  he  may  perhaps 
be  bewildered,  by  arguments  like  these.  During  the  last 
two  centuries^  gome  hundreds  of  absolute  priueei  hm^ 


mLL’s  ESSAY  ON  GOVERNMENT. 


305 


reigned  in  Europe.  Is  it  true,  that  their  cruelty  has  kept  in 
existence  the  most  intense  degree  of  terror ; that  their 
rapacity  has  left  no  more  than  tlie  hare  means  of  subsist- 
ence to  any  of  tlieir  subjects,  their  ministers  and  soldiers 
excepted  ? Is  this  true  of  all  of  them  ? Of  one  half  of 
them?  Of  one  tenth  part  of  them?  Of  a single  one?  Is 
it  true,  in  the  full  extent  even  of  Philip  the  Second,  of  Louis 
the  Fifteenth,  or  of  the  Emperor  Paul?  But  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  quote  history.  No  man  of  common  sense, 
however  ignorant  he  may  be  of  books,  can  be  imposed  on 
by  Mr.  Mill's  argiment;  because  no  man  of  common  sense 
can  live  among  his  fellow-creatures  for  a day  without  seeing 
innumerable  facts  which  contradict  it.  It  is  our  business, 
however,  to  point  out  its  fallacy;  and  haj:>23ily  the  fallacy  is 
not  very  recondite. 

We  grant  that  rulers  will  take  as  much  as  they  can  of  the 
objects  of  their  desires  ; and  that,  when  the  agency  of  other 
men  is  necessary  to  that  and,  they  will  attempt  by  all  means 
in  their  power  to  enforce  the  prompt  obedience  of  suck  men. 
But  what  are  the  objacts  of  human  desire?  Physical 
pleasure,  no  doubt,  in  jDart.  But  the  mere  appetites  which 
we  have  in  common  with  the  animals  would  be  gratified 
almost  as  cheaply  and  easily  as  those  of  the  animals  are 
gratified,  if  nothing  were  given  to  taste,  to  ostentation,  or 
to  the  affections.  How  small  a portion  of  the  income  of  a 
gentleman  in  easy  circumstances  is  laid  out  merely  in  giving 
pleasurable  sensations  to  the  body  of  the  possessor ! The 
greater  part  even  of  what  is  spent  on  his  kitchen  and  his 
cellar  goes,  not  to  titillate  his  palate,  but  to  keep  up  his 
character  for  hospitality,  to  save  him  from  the  rei3roach  of 
meanness  in  housekeeping,  and  to  cement  the  ties  of  good 
neighborhood.  It  is  clear  that  a king  or  an  aristocracy  may 
be  supplied  to  satiety  with  mere  corj^oral  pleasures,  at  an 
expense  Avhich  the  rudest  and  poorest  community  would 
scarcely  feel. 

Those  tastes  and  propensities  which  belong  to  us  as 
reasoning  and  imaginative  beings  are  not  indeed  so  easily 
gratified.  There  is,  we  admit,  no  point  of  saturation  with 
objects  of  desire  which  come  under  this  head.  And  there- 
fore the  argument  of  Mr.  Mill  will  be  just,  unless  there  be 
something  in  the  nature  of  the  objects  of  desire  themselvei 
which  is  inconsistent  with  it.  Now,  of  these  objects  there 
is  none  which  men  in  general  seem  to  desire  more  than  the 
good  opinion  of  others.  The  hatred  and  contempt  of  the 


896  MACil‘jLAY'8  MISCELLANEOUS  WKllxl»<GS. 

public  are  generally  felt  to  be  intolerable.  It  is  probable 
that  our  regard  for  the  sentiments  of  our  fellow-creatures 
springs,  by  association,  from  a sense  of  their  ability  to  hurt 
or  to  serve  us.  But,  be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  notorious  that, 
when  the  habit  of  mind  of  which  we  sj)eak  has  once  been 
formed,  men  feel  extremely  solicitous  about  the  opinions  of 
those  whom  it  is  most  improbable,  nay,  absolutely  impos- 
sible, that  they  should  ever  be  in  the  slightest  degree  injured 
or  benefited.  The  desire  of  posthumous  fame  and  the  dread 
of  posthumous  reproach  and  execration  are  feelings  from  the 
iiJluence  of  which  scarcely  any  man  is  perfectly  free,  and 
which  in  many  men  are  powerful  and  constant  motives  of 
action.  As  we  are  afraid  that,  if  we  handle  this  part  of  the 
argument  after  our  own  manner,  we  shall  incur  the  reproach 
of  sentimentality,  a word  which,  in  the  sacred  language  of 
the  Benthamites,  is  synonymous  with  idiocy,  we  will  quote 
what  Mr.  Mill  himself  says  on  the  subject,  in  his  Treatise  on 
J urisprudence. 

“ Pains  from  the  moral  source  are  the  pains  derived  from  the  unfavorable 
sentiments  of  mankind.  * * These  pains  are  capable  of  rising  to  a 

height  with  which  hardly  any  other  pains  incident  to  our  nature  can  be  com- 
pared. There  is  a certain  degree  of  unfavorableness  in  the  sentiments  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  under  which  hardly  any  man,  not  below  the  standard  of 
humanity,  can  endure  to  live. 

“ The  importance  of  this  powerful  agency,  for  the  prevention  of  injurious 
acts,  is  too  obvious  to  need  to  be  illustrated.  If  sufficiently  at  command,  it 
would  almost  supersede  the  use  of  other  means.  * * * * 

“To  know  how  to  direct  the  unfavorable  sentiments  of  mankind,  it  is 
necessary  to  know  in  as  complete,  that  is,  in  as  comprehensive,  a way  as 
possible,  what  it  is  which  gives  them  birth.  Without  entering  into  the  meta- 
physics of  the  question,  it  is  a sufficient  practical  answer,  for  the  present 
purpose,  to  say  that  tlie  unfavorable  sentiments  of  man  are  excited  by  every 
thing  which  hurts  them.” 

It  is  strange  that  a writer  who  considers  the  pain  derived 
from  the  unfavorable  sentiments  of  others  as  so  acute  that, 
if  sufficiently  at  command,  it  would  supersede  the  use  of  the 
gallows  and  the  tread-mill,  should  take  no  notice  of  this  most 
important  restraint  when  discussing  the  question  of  govern- 
ment. We  will  attempt  to  deduce  a theory  of  politics  in  the 
mathematical  form,  in  which  Mr.  Mill  delights,  from  the 
premises  with  which  he  has  himself  furnished  us. 

Proposition  I.  Theorem. 

No  rulers  will  do  anything  wdiich  may  hurt  the  people. 

This  is  the  thesis  to  be  maintained ; and  the  following 
we  humbly  offer  Mr.  Mill,  as  its  syllogistic  demonstration. 


MILL^S  ESSAY  ON  GOVERNMENT.  397 

'No  rulers  will  do  that  which  produces  pain  to  themselves. 
But  the  unfavorable  sentiments  of  the  people  will  give 
pain  to  them. 

Therefore  no  rulers  will  do  anything  which  may  excite 
the  unfavorable  sentiments  of  the  people. 

But  the  unfavorable  sentiments  of  the  people  are  excited 
by  everything  which  hurts  them. 

Therefore  no  rulers  will  do  anything  which  may  hurt  the 
people.  Which  was  the  thing  to  be  proved. 

Having  thus,  as  we  think,  not  unsuccessfully  imitated 
Mr.  Mill’s  logic,  we  do  not  see  why  we  should  not  imitate, 
what  is  at  least  equally  perfect  in  its  kind,  his  self-compla. 
cency,  and  proclaim  our  Eupv^xa  in  his  own  words : The 

chain  of  inference,  in  this  case,  is  close  and  strong  to  a most 
unusual  degree.” 

The  fact  is,  that,  when  men,  in  treating  of  things  which 
cannot  be  circumscribed  by  precise  definitions,  adopt  this 
mode  of  reasoning,  when  once  they  begin  to  talk  of  power, 
happiness,  misery,  pain,  pleasure,  motives,  objects  of  desire, 
as  they  talk  of  lines  and  numbers,  there  is  no  end  to  the 
contradictions  and  absurdities  into  which  they  fall.  There 
is  no  proposition  so  monstrously  untrue  in  morals  or  politics 
that  we  will  not  undertake  to  prove  it,  by  something  which 
shall  sound  like  a logical  demonstration,  from  admitted 
principles. 

Mr.  Mill  argues  that,  if  men  are  not  inclined  to  plunder 
each  other,  government  is  unnecessary ; and  that,  if  they  are 
so  inclined,  the  powers  of  government,  when  entrusted  to  a 
small  number  of  them,  will  necessarily  be  abused.  Surely 
it  is  not  by  propounding  dilemmas  of  this  sort  that  we  are 
likely  to  arrive  at  sound  conclusions  in  any  moral  science. 
The  whole  question  is  a question  of  degree.  If  all  men  pre- 
ferred the  moderate  approbation  of  their  neighbors  to  any 
degree  of  wealth  or  grandeur,  or  sensual  pleasure,  govern- 
ment would  be  unnecessary.  If  all  men  desired  wealth  so 
intensely  as  to  be  willing  to  brave  the  hatred  of  their  fellow- 
cieatures  for  sixpence,  Mr.  Mill’s  argument  against  mon- 
archies and  aristocracies  would  be  true  to  the  full  extent. 
But  the  fact  is,  that  all  men  have  some  desires  that  impel 
them  to  injure  their  neighbors,  and  some  desires  which 
impel  them  to  benefit  their  neighbors.  Now,  if  there  was  a 
community  consisting  of  two  classes  of  men,  one  of  which 
should  be  principally  influenced  by  the  one  set  of  motives, 


I 


398  Macaulay’s  mtsckllaneous  wuitikgs. 

and  the  other  by  the  other,  government  would  clearly  be 
necessary  to  restrain  the  class  which  was  eager  for  plunder 
and  careless  for  reputation  : and  yet  the  powers  of  govern- 
ment might  be  salcly  intrusted  to  the  class  which  was 
chiefly  actuated  by  the  love  of  approbation.  Now,  it  might 
with  no  small  plausibility  be  maintained  that,  in  many 
countries,  there  are  two  classes  which,  in  some  degree, 
answer  to  this  description  ; that  the  poor  compose  the  class 
which  government  is  established  to  restrain,  and  the  people 
of  some  property  the  class  to  which  the  powers  of  govern- 
ment may  without  danger  be  confided.  It  might  be  said 
that  a man  who  can  barely  earn  a livelihood  by  severe  labor 
is  under  stronger  temptations  to  pillage  others  than  a man 
who  enjoys  many  luxuries.  It  might  be  said  that  a man 
who  is  lost  in  the  crowd  is  less  likclj^  to  have  the  fear  of 
public  opinion  before  his  eyes  than  a man  whose  station 
and  mode  of  living  render  him  conspicuous.  We  do  not 
assert  all  this.  We  only  say  that  it  was  Mr.  Mill’s  business 
to  prove  the  contrary ; and  that,  not  having  proved  the 
contrary,  he  is  not  entitled  to  say  ‘‘that  those  principles 
which  imply  that  government  is  at  all  necessaiy,  imply  that 
an  aristocracy  will  make  use  of  its  power  to  defeat  the  end 
for  which  governments  exist.”  This  is  not  true,  unless  it  be 
true  that  a rich  man  is  as  likely  to  covet  the  goods  of  his 
neighbors  as  a poor  man,  and  that  a poor  man  is  as  likely 
to  be  solicitous  about  the  opinions  of  his  neighbors  as  a rich 
man. 

But  we  do  not  see  that,  by  reasoning  a priori  on  such 
subjects  as  these,  it  is  possible  to  advance  one  single  step. 
We  know  that  every  man  has  some  desires  which  he  can 
gratify  only  by  hurting  his  neighbors,  and  some  which  he 
can  gratify  only  by  pleasing  them.  Mr.  Mill  has  chosen  to 
look  only  at  one-half  of  human  nature,  and  to  reason  on  the 
motives  which  impel  men  to  oppress  and  despoil  others,  as 
if  they  were  the  only  motives  by  which  men  could  possibly 
be  influenced.  We  have  already  shown  that,  by  taking  the 
other  half  of  the  human  character,  and  reasoning  on  it  as  if 
it  were  the  whole,  w^e  can  bring  out  a result  diametrically 
opposite  to  that  at  which  Mr.  Mill  has  arrived.  We  can, 
by  such  a process,  easily  prove  that  any  form  of  government 
is  good,  or  that  all  government  is  superfluous. 

We  must  now  accompany  Mr.  Mill  on  the  next  stage  of 
his  argument.  Does  any  combination  of  the  three  simple 
forms  of  government  aflbrd  the  requisite  securities  against 


MILL  S ESSAY  ON  GOVERNMENT, 


399 


t^e  abuse  of  power?  Mr.  Mill  complains  that  those  who 
maintain  the  affirmative  generally  beg  the  question ; and 
pro^jeeds  to  settle  the  point  by  proving,  after  his  fashion, 
that  no  combination  of  the  three  simple  forms,  or  of  any  two 
of  them,  can  possibly  exist. 

“ From  the  principles  whicli  we  have  already  laid  down  it  follows  that, 
of  the  objects  of  human  desire,  and,  speaking  more  definitely,  of  the  means 
to  the  ends  of  human  desire,  namely,  wealth  and  power,  each  party  will 
endeavor  to  obtain  as  much  as  possible. 

“ If  an^’^  expedient  presents  itself  to  any  of  the  supposed  parties  effec- 
tual to  this  end,  and  not  opposed  to  any  preferred  object  of  pursuit,  we^iay 
infer  with  certainty  tliatit  will  be  adopted.  One  effectual  expedient  is  not 
more  effectual  than  obvious.  Any  two  of  the  parties,  by  comoining,  may 
swallow  up  the  third.  That  such  combination  will  take  place  appears  to 
be  as  certain  as  anything  which  depends  upon  human  will  ; because  there 
are  strong  motives  in  favor  of  it,  and  none  that  can  be  conceived  in  opposi- 
tion to  it.  * * * * The  mixture  of  three  of  the  kinds  of  government,  it  is  thus 
evident,  cannot  possibly  exist.  * * * *-  ft  may  be  proper  to  inquire  whether 
an  union  may  not  be  possible  of  two  of  them.  * * * 

“ Let  us  first  suppose,  that  monarchy  is  united  wdth  aristocracy.  Their 
power  is  equal  or  not  equal.  If  it  is  not  equal,  it  follows,  as  a necessary 
consequence,  from  the  principles  which  we  have  already  established,  that 
the  stronger  will  take  from  the  weaker  till  it  engrosses  the  whole.  The 
only  question  therefore  is,  What  will  happen  when  the  power  is  equal  ? 

“ In  the  first  place,  it  seems  impossible  that  such  equality  should  ever 
exist.  How  is  it  to  be  established  ? or,  by  what  criterion  is  it  to  be  ascer- 
tained ? If  there  is  no  such  criterion,  it  must,  in  all  cases,  be  the  result  of 
chance.  If  so,  the  chances  against  it  are  as  infinity  to  one.  The  idea, 
therefore,  is  wholly  chimerical  and  absurd.  * * 

“ In  this  doctrine  of  the  mixture  of  the  simple  forms  of  government  is 
included  the  celebrated  theory  of  the  balance  among  the  component  parts 
of  a government.  By  this  it  is  supposed  that,  when  a government  is  com- 
posed of  monarchy,  aristocracy,  and  democracy,  they  balance  one  another, 
and  by  mutual  checks  produce  good  government.  A few  words  will  suffice 
to  show  that,  if  aii3^  theory  deserves  the  epithets  of  ‘ wild,  visionary  and 
chimerical,’  it  is  that  of  the  balance.  If  there  are  three  powers,  how  is  it 
possible  to  prevent  two  of  them  from  combining  to  swallow  up  the  third. 

“ The  analysis  which  we  have  already  performed  will  enable  us  to  trace 
rapidly  the  concatenation  of  causes  and  effects  in  this  imagined  case. 

“We  have  already  seen  that  the  interests  of  the  community,  considered 
in  the  aggregate,  or  in  the  dcmocratical  point  of  view,  is  that  each  indi- 
vidual should  receive  protection  ; and  that  the  powers  which  are  constituted 
for  that  purpose  should  be  employed  exclusively  for  that  purpose.  * 

We  have  also  seen  that  the  interest  of  the  king  and  of  the  governing  aris- 
tocracy is  directly  the  reverse.  It  is  to  have  unlimited  power  over  the  rest 
of  the  community,  and  to  use  it  for  their  own  advantage.  In  the  supposed 
case  of  the  balance  of  the  monarchical,  aristocratical,  and  democratical 
powers,  it  cannot  be  for  the  interest  of  either  the  monarchy  or  the  aris- 
tocracy to  combine  with  the  democracy  ; because  it  is  the  interest  of  the 
democracy,  or  community  at  large,  that  neither  the  king  nor  the  aristocracy 
should  have  one  particle  of  power,  or  one  particle  of  the  wealth  of  the  com- 
munity, for  their  own  advantage. 

“ The  democracy  or  community  have  all  possible  motives  to  endeavor  to 
prevent  the  monarchy  and  aristocracy  from  exercising  power,  or  obtaining 
the  wealth  of  the  community  for  their  own  advantage.  The  monarchy  and 
aristocracy  have  all  possible  motives  for  endeavoring  to  obtain  unlimited 
power  over  the  persons  and  property  of  the  community.  The  consequence 
ts  inevltabl'5  ; niotive^  igx  commniog  to  tbftt 


400 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  avkitings. 


If  any  ])art  of  this  j)assagc  be  more  eminently  absurd 
tlian  another,  it  is,  avc  think,  tlie  argument  by  Avhicli  Mr. 
Mill  proves  that  tlicre  cannot  be  an  union  of  monarcliy  and 
aristocracy.  Their  j)0\ver,  lie  says,  must  be  equal  o?  not 
equal.  But  of  equality  there  is  no  criterion.  Therefore 
the  chances  against  its  existence  are  as  infinity  to  one.  If 
the  pOAVcr  be  not  equal,  then  it  folloAvs,  from  the  principle 
of  human  nature,  that  the  stronger  will  take  from  the  weaker, 
till  it  has  engrossed  the  whole. 

Noav,  if  there  be  no  criterion  of  equality  between  two  por- 
tions of  poAver  there  can  be  no  common  measure  of  jiortions 
of  ])ower.  Therefore  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  compare 
them  together.  But  Avhere  two  portions  of  poAver  are  of 
the  same  kind,  there  is  no  difficulty  in  ascertaining,  suf- 
ficiently for  all  practical  purposes,  Avhether  they  are  equal 
or  unequal.  It  is  easy  to  judge  Avhether  tAvo  men  run 
equally  fast,  or  can  lift  equal  Aveights.  Tavo  arbitrators, 
whose  joint  decision  is  to  be  final,  and  cither  of  Avhom  can 
do  anything  Avithout  the  assent  of  the  other,  jiossess  equal 
poAver.  Two  electors,  each  of  Avhom  has  a vote  for  a bor- 
ough,  possess,  in  that  respect,  equal  poAver.  If  not,  all  Mr. 
Mill’s  political  theories  fall  to  the  ground  at  once.  For,  if 
it  be  impossible  to  ascertain  Avhether  tAvo  portions  of  power 
are  equal,  he  never  can  shoAv  that,  CA^en  under  a system  of 
universal  suffrage,  a minority  might  not  carry  everything 
their  OAvn  way,  against  the  Avishes  and  interests  of  the  ma- 
jority. 

Where  there  are  two  portions  of  power  differing  in  kind, 
there  is,  Ave  admit,  no  criterion  of  equality.  But  then,  in 
such  a case,  it  is  absurd  to  talk,  as  Mr.  Mill  does,  about  the 
stronger  and  the  weaker.  Popularly,  indeed,  and  with  ref- 
erence to  some  particular  objects,  these  Avords  may  very 
fairly  be  used.  But  to  use  them  mathematically  is  altogether 
improper.  If  Ave  are  speaking  of  a boxing-match,  Ave  may 
say  that  some  famous  bruiser  has  greater  bodily  poAver  than 
any  man  in  England.  If  Ave  are  speaking  of  a pantomime, 
we  may  say  the  same  of  some  A ery  agile  harlequin.  But  it 
vvould  be  talking  nonsense  to  say,  in  general,  that  thepoAver 
of  Harlequin  either  exceeded  that  of  the  pugilist,  or  fell 
short  of  it. 

If  Mr.  Mill’s  argument  be  good  as  between  different 
branches  of  a legislature,  it  is  equally  good  as  between  sov- 
ereign powers.  Every  government,  it  may  be  said,  Avill,  if 
can,  take  the  objects  of  its  desires  from  every  other.  If 


\ MILL^S  ESSAY  ON  GOVERNMENT.  401 

the  Fi’ench  government  cun  subdue  Englund  it  will  do  so. 
If  the  English  government  cun  subdue  Frunce  it  will  do  so. 
But  the  power  of  England  und  Frunce  is  either  equal  or 
not  equal.  The  cliuncc  that  it  is  not  exactly  equal  is  as  in- 
finity to  one,  and  may  safely  be  left  out  of  the  account ; ind 
then  the  stronger  will  infallibly  take  from  the  weaker  till 
the  weaker  is  altogether  enslaved. 

Surely  the  answer  to  all  this  hubbub  of  unmeaning  words 
is  the  plainest  possible.  For  some  purposes  France  is 
stronger  than  England.  For  some  purposes  England  is 
Btiongcr  than  France,  For  some,  neither  has  any  ])ower 
at  all.  France  has  the  greater  population,  England  the 
greater  capital ; France  has  the  greater  army,  England  the 
greater  fleet.  For  an  expedition  to  Rio  Janeiro  or  the 
Philippines,  England  has  the  greater  power.  For  a war  on 
the  Po  or  the  Danube,  France  has  the  greater  power.  But 
neither  has  power  suflicient  to  keep  the  other  in  quiet  sub- 
jection for  a month.  Invasion  would  be  very  perilous; 
the  idea  of  complete  conquest  on  either  side  utterly  ridiculous. 
This  is  the  manly  and  sensible  way  of  discussing  such  ques- 
tions. The  ergo^  or  rather  the  argal^  of  Mr.  Mill  cannot 
impose  on  a child.  Yet  we  ought  scarcely  to  say  this;  for 
we  remember  to  have  heard  a child  ask  whether  Bonaparte 
was  stronger  than  an  elephant. 

Mr.  Mill  reminds  us  of  those  philosophers  of  the  sixteenth 
century  who,  having  satisfied  themselves  a priori  that  the 
rapidity  with  which  bodies  descended  to  the  earth  varied 
exactly  as  their  weights,  refused  to  believe  the  contrary  on 
the  evidence  of  their  own  eyes  and  ears.  The  British  con- 
stitution, according  to  Mr.  Mill’s  classification,  is  a mixture 
of  monarchy  and  aristocracy;  one  House  of  Parliament 
being  composed  of  hereditary  nobles,  and  the  other  almost 
entirely  chosen  by  a privileged  class  who  possess  the  elec- 
tive franchise  on  account  of  their  property,  or  their  connec- 
tion with  certain  corporations.  Mr.  Mill’s  argument  proves 
that,  from  the  time  that  these  two  powers  were  mingled  in 
our  government,  that  is,  from  the  very  first  dawn  of  our 
history,  one  or  the  other  must  have  been  constantly  encroach- 
ing. According  to  him,  moreover,  all  the  encroachments 
must  have  been  on  one  side.  For  the  first  encroachment 
could  only  have  been  made  by  the  stronger ; and  that  first 
encroachment  would  have  made  the  stronger  stronger  still. 
It  is,  therefore,  matter  of  absolute  demonstration,  that  either 
the  Parliament  was  stronger  than  the  Crown  in  the  reign  of 
Vql,  I.—26 


402  MACAFLAY’ft  M1.-)CELLA NEOUS  WRITINGS. 

Henry  VIII.,  or  tliat  Die  Crown  was  stronger  than  Die  Par- 
liaraent  in  1641.  “ Ilijijiocrate  (lira  ce  que  lui  plaira/'  says 

the  girl  in  Moliere  : “ niais  le  cocher  est  niort.”  Mr.  Mill 
may  say  what  he  pleases  ; but  Die  English  constitution  is 
still  alive.  That  since  Die  Kevolution  the  Parliament  has 
possessed  great  power  in  the  state,  is  what  nobody  will  dis- 
pute. The  king,  on  the  other  hand,  can  create  new  jieers, 
and  can  dissolve  Parliaments.  William  sustained  severe 
mortification  from  the  House  of  Commons,  and  was,  indeed, 
unjustifiably  oppressed.  Anne  was  desii’ous  to  change  a 
ministry  which  had  a majority  in  both  Houses.  She 
watched  her  moment  for  a dissolution,  created  twelve  Tory 
peers,  and  succeeded.  Thirty  years  later,  the  House  of 
Commons  drove  Walpole  from  liis  seat.  In  1784,  George 
III.  was  able  to  keep  Mr.  Pitt  in  office  in  the  face  of  a ma-  I 
jority  of  the  House  of  Commons.  In  1804,  the  apprehension 
of  a defeat  in  Parliament  compelled  the  same  King  to  part 
from  his  most  favored  minister.  But,  in  1807,  he  Avas  able 
to  do  exactly  what  Anne  had  done  nearly  a hundred  years 
before.  Kow,  had  the  power  of  the  King  increased  during 
the  intervening  century,  or  had  it  remained  stationary  ? 

Is  it  possible  that  the  one  lot  among  the  infinite  number 
should  have  fallen  to  us  ? If  not,  Mr.  Mill  has  proved  that 
one  of  the  two  parties  must  have  been  constantly  taken  from 
the  other.  Many  of  the  ablest  men  in  England  think  that 
the  influence  of  the  CroAvn  has,  on  the  whole,  increased 
since  the  reign  of  Anne.  Others  think  that  the  Parliament 
has  been  growing  in  strength.  But  of  this  there  is  no  doubt, 
that  both  sides  possessed  great  ]X)wer  then,  and  possess 
great  power  now.  Surely,  if  there  were  the  least  truth  in 
the  argument  of  Mr.  Mill,  it  could  not  possibly  be  a matter 
of  doubt,  at  the  end  of  a hundred  and  tw^enty  years,  whether 
the  one  side  or  the  other  had  been  the  gainer. 

But  we  ask  pardon.  We  forgot  that  a fact,  irreconcila- 
ble with  Mr.  Mill’s  theory,  furnishes,  in  his  opinion,  the 
strongest  reason  for  adhering  to  the  theory.  To  take  up 
the  question  in  another  manner,  is  it  not  plain  that  there 
may  be  tAvo  bodies,  each  possessing  a perfect  and  entire 
power,  which  cannot  be  taken  from  it  without  its  own  con- 
currence? What  is  the  meaning  of  the  words  stronger  and 
weaker,  when  applied  to  such  bodies  as  these  ? The  one 
may,  indeed,  by  physical  force,  altogether  destroy  the  other. 
But  this  is  not  the  question.  A third  party,  a general  of 
thek  own,  for  eaiampkj  tnayi  by  phy^kal  foro©j  subjugat© 


mill’s  essay  on  government.  40;i 

them  both.  Nor  is  there  any  form  of  government,  Mr.  Mill’s 
utopian  domocracy  not  excepted,  secure  from  such  an  occur^ 
rence.  We  are  speaking  of  the  powers  witli  wliicli  the  con- 
stitution invests  the  two  branches  of  the  legislature ; and 
we  ask  Mr.  Mill  how,  on  his  own  principles,  he  can  main- 
tain that  one  of  them  will  be  able  to  encroach  on  the  other, 
if  the  consent  of  the  other  be  necessary  to  such  encroach^ 
ment. 

Mr.  Mill  tells  us  that,  if  a government  be  composed  of 
the  three  simple  forms,  which  he  will  not  admit  the  British 
constitution  to  be,  two  of  the  component  parts  will  inevita- 
bly join  against  the  third.  Now,  if  two  of  them  combine 
and  act  as  one,  this  case  evidently  resolves  itself  into  the 
last;  and  all  the  observations  which  we  have  just  made  will 
fully  apply  to  it.  Mr.  Mill  says,  that  “ any  two  of  the  par- 
ties, by  combining,  may  swallow  up  the  third  ; ” and  after- 
wards asks,  “ How  it  is  possible  to  prevent  two  of  them 
from  combining  to  swallow  up  the  third?”  Surely  Mr. 
Mill  must  be  aware  that  in  politics  two  is  not  always  the 
double  of  one.  If  the  concurrence  of  all  the  three  branches 
of  the  legislature  be  necessary  to  every  law,  each  branch 
will  possess  constitutional  power  sufficient  to  protect  it  against 
any  tiling  but  that  physical  force  from  which  no  form  of  gov- 
ernment is  secure.  Mr.  Mill  reminds  us  of  the  Irishman, 
who  could  not  be  brought  to  understand  how  one  juryman 
could  possibly  starve  out  eleven  others. 

But  is  it  certain  that  two  of  the  branches  of  the  legisla- 
ture will  combine  against  the  third  ? “ It  appears  to  be  as 

certain,”  says  Mr.  Mill,  “ as  anything  which  depends  upon 
human  will ; because  there  are  strong  motives  in  favor  of  it, 
and  none  that  can  be  conceived  in  opposition  to  it.”  He 
subsequently  sets  forth  what  these  motives  are.  The  inter- 
est of  the  democracy  is  that  each  individual  should  receive 
protection.  The  interest  of  the  King  and  the  aristocracy  is 
to  have  all  the  power  that  they  can  obtain,  and  to  use  it  for 
their  own  ends.  Therefore  the  King  and  the  aristocracy 
have  all  possible  motives  for  combining  against  the  people. 
If  our  readers  will  look  back  to  the  passage  quoted  above, 
they  will  see  that  we  represent  Mr.  Mill’s  argument  quite 
fairly. 

Now  we  should  have  thought  that,  without  the  help  of 
either  history  or  experience,  Mr.  Mill  would  have  discovered, 
by  the  light  of  his  own  logic,  the  fallacy  which  lurks,  and 
indeed  scarcely  lurks,  under  this  pretended  demonstration. 


404  MACAULAY^S  MTSCELLANfiOUS  WRITINGS. 

The  interest  of  the  King  may  be  opposed  to  that  of  the  peo. 
pie.  But  is  it  identical  with  that  of  the  aristocracy  ? In  the 
very  page  which  contains  this  argument,  intended  to  j)rove 
that  the  King  and  the  aristocracy  will  coalesce  against  the 
people,  Mr.  Mill  attempts  to  show  that  there  is  so  strong  an 
opposition  of  interest  between  the  King  and  the  aristocracy 
tl'.atif  the  powers  of  government  are  divided  between  them 
the  one  will  inevitably  usurp  the  power  of  the  other.  If  so, 
ho  is  not  entitled  to  conclude  that  they  will  combine  to  destroy 
the  power  of  the  people  merely  because  their  interests  may 
be  at  variance  with  those  of  the  people.  He  is  bound  to 
show,  not  merely  that  in  all  communities  the  interest, of  a 
king  must  be  oj:)})osed  to  that  of  the  people,  but  also  that, 
in  all  communities,  it  must  be  more  directly  opposed  to  the 
interest  of  the  people  than  to  the  interest  of  the  aristocracy. 
But  he  has  not  shown  this.  Therefore  he  has  not  proved 
his  proposition  on  his  own  principles.  To  quote  history 
would  be  a mere  waste  of  time.  Every  schoolboy,  whose 
studies  have  gone  so  far  as  the  Abridgments  of  Goldsmith, 
can  mention  instances  in  which  sovereigns  have  allied  them- 
selves with  the  people  against  the  aristocracy,  and  in  which 
the  nobles  have  allied  themselves  with  the  people  against 
the  sovereign.  In  general,  when  there  are  three  parties, 
every  one  of  which  has  much  to  fear  from  the  others,  it  is 
not  found  that  two  of  them  combine  to  plunder  the  third. 
If  such  a combination  be  formed,  it  scarcely  ever  effects  its 
purpose.  It  soon  becomes  evident  which  member  of  the 
coalition  is  likely  to  be  the  greater  gainer  by  the  transaction. 
He  becomes  an  object  of  jealousy  to  his  ally,  who,  in  all 
probability,  changes  sides,  and  compels  him  to  restore  what 
he  has  taken.  Everybody  knows  how  Henry  VIII.  trimmed 
between  Francis  and  the  Emperor  Charles.  But  it  is  idle 
to  cite  examples  of  the  operation  of  a principle  which  is  illus- 
trated in  almost  every  page  of  history,  ancient  or  modern, 
and  to  which  almost  every  state  in  Europe  has,  at  one  time 
or  another,  been  indebted  for  its  independence. 

Mr.  Mill  has  now,  as  he  conceives,  demonstrated  that 
the  simple  forms  of  government  are  bad,  and  that  the  mixed 
forms  cannot  possibly  exist.  There  is  still,  however,  it 
seems,  a hope  for  mankind. 

“ In  the  grand  discovery  of  modern  times,  the  system  of  -representation, 
the  solution  of  all  the  difficulties,  both  speculative  aiid  practical,  will  perhaps 
be  found.  If  it  cannot,  we  seem  to  be  forced  upon  tlie  extraordinary  conclu- 
iion,  that  good  government  is  imi^ossible.  For,  as  there  is  no  individual  oi 


mill’s  essay  on  goveenment. 


405 


combination  of  individuals,  except  tlie  community  itself,  who  would  not 
have  an  interest  in  bad  government  if  intrusted  with  its  powers,  and  as  the 
community  itself  is  incapable  of  exercising  those  powers,  and  must  intrust 
them  to  certain  individuals,  the  conclusion  is  obvious  : the  community  itself 
must  check  those  individuals  ; else  they  will  follow  their  interest,  and  pro- 
duce bad  government.  But  how  is  it  the  community  can  check  ? The  com- 
munity can  act  only  when  assembled  ; and  when  assembled,  it  is  incapable 
of  acting.  The  community,  however,  can  choose  representatives.” 

The  next  question  is — How  must  the  representative  body 
be  constituted  ? Mr.  Mill  lays  down  two  principles,  about 
which,  he  says,  ‘‘  it  is  unlikely  that  there  will  be  any  dis- 
pute.” 

“ First,  The  checking  body  must  have  a degree  of  power 
Bufhcient  for  the  business  of  checking.” 

“ Secondly,  It  must  have  an  identity  of  interest  with 
the  community.  Otherwise,  it  will  make  a mischievous  use 
of  its  power.” 

The  first  of  these  propositions  certainly  admits  of  no  dis- 
pute. As  to  the  second,  we  shall  hereafter  take  occasion  to 
make  some  remarks  on  the  sense  in  which  Mr.  Mill  under- 
stands the  words  “ interest  of  the  community.” 

It  does  not  appear  very  easy,  on  Mr.  Mill’s  principles,  to 
find  out  any  mode  of  making  the  interest  of  the  representa^ 
tive  body  identical  with  that  of  the  constituent  body.  The 
j)lan  proposed  by  Mr.  Mill  is  simply  that  of  very  frequent 
election.  “ As  it  appears,”  says  he,  “ that  limiting  the  du- 
ration of  their  power  is  a security  against  the  sinister  interest 
of  the  people’s  representatives,  so  it  aj^pears  that  it  is  the  only 
security  of  which  the  nature  of  the  case  admits.”  But  all  the 
arguments  by  which  Mr.  Mill  has  proved  monarchy  and  aris- 
tocracy to  be  pernicious  will,  as  it  appears  to  us,  equally  prove 
this  security  to  be  no  security  at  all.  Is  it  not  clear  that 
the  representatives,  as  soon  as  they  are  elected,  are  an  aris- 
tocracy, wdth  an  interest  opposed  to  the  interest  of  the 
community  ? Why  should  they  hot  pass  a law  for  extending 
the  term  of  their  power  from  one  year  to  ten  years,  or  de- 
clare themselves  senators  for  life  ? If  the  whole  legislative 
power  is  given  to  them,  they  will  be  constitutionally  com- 
petent to  do  this.  If  part  of  the  legislative  power  is  with- 
held from  them,  to  whom  is  that  part  given?  Is  the  people 
to  retain  it,  and  to  express  its  assent  or  dissent  in  primary 
assemblies  ? Mr.  Mill  himself  tells  us  that  the  community 
can  only  act  when  assembled,  and  that,  when  assembled,  it 
is  incapable  of  acting.  Or  is  it  to  be  provided,  as  in  some 
of  the  American  republics,  that  no  change  in  the  fundameo 


400  macaulay^s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tal  laws  shall  be  made  without  the  consent  of  a convention, 
especially  elected  for  the  purpose  ? Still  the  difficulty  recurs : 
Why  may  not  the  members  of  the  convention  betray  their 
trust,  as  well  as  the  members  of  the  ordinary  legislature  ? 
When  private  men,  they  may  have  been  zealous  for  the 
interests  of  the  community.  When  candidates,  they  may 
have  pledged  themselves  to  the  cause  of  the  constitution. 
But,  as  soon  as  they  are  a convention,  as  soon  as  they  are 
separated  from  the  people,  as  soon  as  the  supreme  power  is 
put  into  their  hands,  commences  that  interest  oppesed  to 
the  interest  of  the  community  which  must,  according  to  Mr. 
Mill,  produce  measures  op]30site  to  the  interests  of  the  com- 
munity. We  must  find  some  other  means,  therefore,  of 
checking  this  check  upon  a check ; some  other  prop  to  carry 
the  tortoise,  that  carries  tlie  elephant,  that  carries  the  world. 

W e know  well  that  there  is  no  real  danger  in  such  a 
case.  But  there  is  no  danger  only  because  there  is  no  truth 
in  Mr.  Mill’s  principles.  If  men  were  what  he  represents 
them  to  be,  the  letter  of  the  constitution  which  he  recom- 
mends would  afford  no  safeguard  against  bad  government. 
The  real  security  is  this,  that  legislators  will  be  deterred  by 
the  fear  of  resistance  and  of  infamy  from  acting  in  the  man- 
ner which  we  have  described.  But  restraints,  exactly  the 
same  in  kind,  and  differing  only  in  degree,  exist  in  all  forms 
of  government.  That  broad  line  of  distinction  which  Mr. 
Mill  tries  to  point  out  between  monarchies  and  aristocracies 
on  the  one  side,  and  democracies  on  the  other,  has  in  fact  no 
existence.  In  no  form  of  government  is  there  an  absolute 
identity  of  interest  between  the  people  and  their  rulers.  In  • 
every  form  of  government,  the  rulers  stand  in  some  awe  of 
the  people.  The  fear  of  resistance  and  the  sense  of  shame 
operate,  in  a certain  degree,  on  the  most  absolute  kings  and 
the  most  illiberal  oligarchies.  And  nothing  but  the  fear  of 
resistance  and  the  sense  of  shame  preserves  the  freedom  of 
the  most  democratic  communities  from  the  encroachments 
of  their  annual  and  biennial  delegates. 

We  have  seen  how  Mr.  Mill  proposes  to  render  the  in- 
terest of  the  representative  body  identical  with  that  of  the 
constituent  body.  The  next  question  is,  in  what  manner 
the  interest  of  the  constituent  body  is  to  be  rendered  identi- 
cal with  that  of  the  community.  Mr.  Mill  shows  that  a 
minority  of  the  community,  consisting  even  of  many  thou- 
sands, would  be  a bad  constituent  body,  and,  indeed,  merely 
a numerous  aristocracy. 


inLl'S  ESSAY  ON  GOVERNMENT. 


407 


**The  benefits  of  tlie  representative  system,”  says  lie, 
“ are  lost,  in  all  cases  in  which  the  interests  of  the  choosing 
body  are  not  the  same  with  those  of  the  community.  It  is 
very  evident,  that  if  the  community  itself  were  the  choos- 
ing body,  the  interest  of  the  community  and  that  of  the 
choosing  body  would  be  the  same.” 

On  these  grounds  Mr.  Mill  recommends  that  all  males  of 
mature  age,  rich  and  poor,  educated  and  ignorant,  shall 
have  votes.  But  why  not  the  women  too  ? This  question 
has  often  been  asked  in  parliamentary  debate,  and  has  never, 
to  our  knowledge,  received  a plausible  answer.  Mr.  Mill 
escapes  from  it  as  fast  as  he  can.  But  wo  shall  take  the 
liberty  to  dwell  a little  on  the  words  of  tlie  oracle.  One 
thing,”  says  he,  ‘‘is  pretty  clear,  that  all  those  individuals 
whose  interests  are  involved  in  those  of  other  individuals, 
may  be  struck  off  Avithout  inconvenience.  * * * In  this 

light  women  may  be  regarded,  the  interest  of  almost  all  of 
whom  is  involved  either  in  that  of  their  fathers,  or  in  that 
of  their  husbands.” 

If  we  were  to  content  oursehms  with  saying,  in  answer 
to  all  the  arguments  in  Mr.  Mill’s  essay,  that  the  interest  of 
a king  is  involved  in  that  of  the  community,  we  should  be 
accused,  and  justly,  of  talking  nonsense.  Yet  such  an  as- 
sertion Avould  not,  as  far  as  we  can  perceive,  be  more  un- 
reasonable than  that  which  Mr.  Mill  has  here  ventured  to 
make.  Without  adducing  one  fact,  without  taking  the 
trouble  to  perplex  the  question  by  one  sophism,  he  placidly 
dogmatizes  away  the  interest  of  one  half  the  human  race. 
If  there  be  a word  of  truth  in  history^  Avomen  have  ahvays 
been,  and  still  are,  over  the  greater  part  of  the  globe,  humble 
companions,  playthings,  captives,  menials,  beasts  of  burden. 
Except  in  a feAV  happy  and  highly  civilized  communities, 
they  are  strictly  in  a state  of  personal  slavery.  Even  in 
those  countries  Avhere  they  are  best  treated,  the  laAvs  are 
generally  unfavorable  to  them,  Avith  respect  to  almost  all 
the  points  in  which  they  are  most  deeply  interested. 

Mr.  Mill  is  not  legislating  for  England  or  the  United 
States ; but  for  mankind.  Is  then  the  interest  of  a Turk 
the  same  Avith  that  of  the  girls  Avho  compose  his  harem  ? Is 
the  interest  of  a Chinese  the  same  Avith  that  of  the  woman 
whom  he  harnesses  to  his  plough?  Is  the  interest  of  an 
Italian  the  same  with  that  of  the  daughter  Avhom  he  devotes 
to  God  ? The  interest  of  a respectable  Englishman  may  be 
said,  without  any  impropriety,  to  be  idcntmal  with  that  ol 


408  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

his  wife.  But  wliy  is  it  so  ? ]>ecause  liuman  nature  is 
what  Mr.  Mill  conceives  it  to  be  ; because  civilized  men, 
pursuing  their  own  happiness  in  a social  state,  are  not  Yji- 
hoos  fighting  for  carrion  ; because  there  is  a j)leasure  in  being 
loved  and  esteemed,  as  well  as  in  being  feared  and  servilely 
obeyed.  Why  docs  not  a gentleman  restrict  his  wife  to  the 
l,»are  maintenance  which  the  law  would  compel  him  to  allow 
her,  that  he  may  have  more  to  spend  on  his  j)ersonal  pleas- 
ures ? Because,  if  ho  loves  her,  he  has  pleasure  in  seeing 
her  pleased  ; and  because,  even  if  he  dislikes  her,  he  is  un- 
willing that  the  whole  neighborhood  should  cry  shame  on 
his  meanness  and  ill-nature.  Why  does  not  the  legislature, 
altogether  composed  of  males,  pass  a law  to  deprive  women 
of  all  civil  privileges  w hatever,  and  reduce  them  to  the  state 
of  slaves  ? By  passing  such  a law,  they  would  gratify  wdiat 
Mr.  Mill  tells  us  is  an  inseparable  part  of  human  nature,  the 
desire  to  possess  unlimited  power  of  inflicting  pain  upon 
others.  That  they  do  not  pass  such  a law,  though  they  have 
the  power  to  pass  it,  and  that  no  man  in  England  wdshes  to 
see  such  a law  passed,  proves  that  the  desire  to  possess  un- 
limited power  of  inflicting  pain  is  not  inseparable  from  hu- 
man nature. 

If  there  be  in  this  country  an  identity  of  interest  between 
the  two  sexes,  it  cannot  possibly  arise  from  anything  but 
the  pleasure  of  being  loved,  and  of  communicating  happi- 
ness. For,  that  it  does  not  spring  from  the  mere  instinct 
of  sex,  the  treatment  which  w^omen  experience  over  the 
greater  part  of  the  w^orld  abundantly  proves.  And,  if  it  be 
said  that  our  laws  of  -marriage  have  produced  it,  this  only 
removes  the  argument  a step  further ; for  those  law^s  have 
been  made  by  males.  Now,  if  the  kind  feelings  of  one 
half  of  the  species  be  a sufficient  security  for  the  happi- 
ness of  the  other,  why  may  not  the  kind  feelings  of  a 
monarch  or  an  aristocracy  be  sufficient  at  least  to  prevent 
them  from  grinding  the  people  to  the  very  utmost  of  their 
power  ? 

If  Mr.  Mill  will  examine  why  it  is  that  w^omen  are  better 
treated  in  England  than  in  Persia,  he  may  perhaps  find  out, 
in  the  course  of  his  inquiries,  why  it  is  that  the  Danes  are 
better  governed  than  the  subjects  of  Caligula. 

We  now  come  to  the  most  important  practical  question 
in  the  whole  essay.  Is  it  desirable  that  all  males  arrived  at 
years  of  discretion  should  vote  for  representatives,  or  should 
a pecuniary  qualification  be  required  ? Mr.  Mill’s  opinion 


mill’s  essay  on  goveek^ment. 


409 


is,  tliat  the  lower  tlic  qualification  the  better  ; and  that  the 
best  system  is  tliat  in  which  there  is  none  at  all. 

“ The  qualification,”  says  he,  “ must  either  be  such  as  to  embrace  the 
majority  of  the  population,  or  sometliing  less  than  the  majority.  Suppose,  in 
the  first  place,  tliat  it  embraces  the  majority,  the  question  is  whether  the 
majority  would  have  an  interest  in  oppressing  those  wlio,  upon  this  suppo- 
sition, would  be  deprived  of  political  power  ? If  w'e  reduce  the  calculation 
to  its  elements,  we  shall  see  that  tlie  interest  which  they  would  have  of  this 
deplorable  kind,  though  it  would  be  something,  would  not  bo  very  great. 
Each  man  of  the  majority, if  the  majority  were  constituted  the  governing  body, 
would  have  something  less  than  the  benefit  of  oppressing  a single  man.  11 
the  majority  were  twice  as  great  as  the  minority,  each  man  of  the  majority 
would  only  have  one  half  the  benefit  of  oppressing  a single  man.  * * ^ Sup- 
pose, in  the  second  place,  that  the  qualification  did  not  admit  a body  of  elec- 
tors so  large  as  the  majority,  in  that  case  taking  again  the  calculation  in  its 
elements,  we  shall  see  that  each  man  would  have  a benefit  equal  to  that  de- 
rived from  tbe  oppression  of  more  than  one  man  ; and  that,  in  proportion 
as  the  elective  body  constituted  a smaller  and  smaller  minority,  the  benefit 
of  misrule  to  the  elective  body  would  be  increased  and  bad  government 
would  be  insured.’^ 

The  first  remark  which  we  have  to  make  on  this  argu- 
ment is,  that,  by  Mr.  Mill’s  own  account,  even  a govern- 
ment in  which  every  human  being  should  vote  would  still 
be  defective.  For,  under  a system  of  universal  suffrage,  the 
majority  of  the  electors  return  the  representative,  and  the 
majority  of  the  representatives  make  the  law.  The  whole 
])eople  may  A^ote,  therefore  ; but  only  the  majority  govern. 
So  that,  by  Mr.  Mill’s  own  confession,  the  most  perfect 
system  of  government  conceivable  is  one  in  Avhich  the  in- 
terest of  the  ruling  body  to  oppress,  though  not  great,  is 
something. 

But  is  Mr.  Mill  in  the  right  when  he  says  that  such  an 
interest  could  not  be  A^ery  great  ? We  think  not.  If,  in- 
deed, every  man  in  the  community  possessed  an  equal  share 
of  what  Mr.  Mill  calls  the  objects  of  desire,  the  majority 
would  probably  abstain  from  plundering  the  minority.  A 
large  minority  Avould  offer  a vigorous  resistance : and  the 
])roperty  of  a smalt  minority  Avould  not  repay  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  community  for  the  trouble  of  dividing  it.  But 
it  happens  that  in  all  civilized  communities  there  is  a small 
minority  of  rich  men,  and  a great  majority  of  poor  men.  If 
there  were  a thousand  men  Avith  ten  pounds  apiece,  it  would 
not  be  Avorth  while  for  nine  hundred  and  ninety  of  them  to 
rob  ten,  and  it  would  be  a bold  attempt  for  six  hundred  of 
them  to  rob  four  hundred.  But,  if  ten  of  them  had  a hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  apiece,  the  case  would  be  very  different. 
There  would  then  be  much  to  be  got,  and  nothing  to  be 
feared. 


410 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


‘‘  That  one  Imman  being  will  desire  to  render  the  person 
and  property  of  ^mother  subservient  to  his  pleasures  notwith- 
standing the  pain  or  loss  of  })leasure  w hich  it  may  occasion 
to  that  other  individual,  is,”  according  to  Mr.  Mill,  “the 
foundation  of  government.”  That  the  property  of  the  rich 
minority  can  be  made  subservient  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
])Oor  majority  will  scarcely  be  denied.  But  Mr.  Mill  pro- 
]>oses  to  give  the  poor  majority  power  over  the  rich  mi- 
nority. Is  it  possible  to  doubt  to  w^hat,  on  his  own  prin 
ci]  les,  such  an  arrangement  must  lead? 

It  may  perhaps  be  said  that,  in  the  long  run,  it  is  for  the 
interest  of  the  people  that  property  should  be  secure,  and 
that  cherefore  they  will  respect  it.  We  answ^er  thus: — It 
cannot  be  pretended  that  it  is  not  for  the  immediate  interest 
of  the  people  to  plunder  the  rich.  Therefore,  even  if  it 
w^ere  quite  certain  that,  in  the  long  run,  the  people  would,  as 
a body,  lose  by  doing  so,  it  w^ould  not  necessarily  follow 
that  the  fear  of  remote  ill  consequences  would  overcome  the 
desire  of  immediate  acquisitions.  Every  individual  might 
flatter  himself  that  the  punishment  would  not  fall  on  him. 
Mr  Mill  himself  tells  us,  in  his  Essay  on  Jurisprudence,  that 
no  quantity  of  evil  which  is  remote  and  uncertain  will  sufllce 
to  prevent  crime. 

But  we  are  rather  inclined  to  think  that  it  wmuld,  on 
the  whole,  be  for  the  interest  of  the  majority  to  plunder  the 
rich.  If  so,  the  Utilitarians  will  say,  that  the  rich  ought  to 
be  plundered.  We  deny  the  inference.  For,  in  the  first 
place,  if  the  object  of  government  be  the  greatest  happiness 
of  the  greatest  number,  the  intensity  of  the  suffering  which 
a measure  inflicts  must  be  taken  into  consideration,  as  w^ell  as 
the  number  of  the  sufferers.  In  the  next  place,  we  have  to 
notice  one  most  important  distinction  which  Mr.  Mill  has 
altogether  overlooked.  Throughout  his  essay,  he  confounds 
the  community  with  the  species.  He  talks  of  the  greatest 
happiness  of  the  greatest  number : but,  when  we  examine 
his  reasonings,  we  find  that  he  thinks  only  of  the  greatest 
number  of  a single  generation. 

Therefore,  even  if  we  w^ere  to  concede  that  all  those  ar- 
guments of  which  we  have  exposed  the  fallacy  are  unanswer- 
able, we  might  still  deny  the  conclusion  at  which  the 
essayist  arrives.  Even  if  we  were  to  grant  that  he  had  found 
out  the  form  of  government  which  is  best  for  the  majority 
of  the  people  now  living  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  we  might 
still  without  inconsistency  maintain  that  form  of  govern- 


mill’s  essay  on  government. 


411 


ment  to  be  pernicious  to  mankind.  It  would  still  be  in- 
cumbent on  Mr.  Mill  to  prove  that  the  interest  of  every 
generation  is  identical  with  the  interest  of  all  succeeding 
generations.  And  how  on  his  own  principles  he  could  do 
this  we  are  at  a loss  to  conceive. 

The  case,  indeed,  is  strictly  analogous  to  that  of  an  aris- 
tocratic government.  In  an  aristocracy,  says  Mr.  Mill,  th<5 
few,  being  invested  wdth  the  powers  of  government,  can  take 
the  objects  of  their  desires  from  the  people.  In  the  same  man- 
ner, every  generation  in  turn  can  gratify  itself  at  the  expense 
of  posterity, — priority  of  time,  in  the  latter  case,  giving  an 
advantage  exactly  corresponding  to  that  which  superiority 
of  station  gives  in  the  former.  That  an  aristocracy  will 
abuse  its  advantage,  is,  according  to  Mr.  Mill,  matter  of 
demonstration.  Is  it  not  equally  certain  that  the  whole 
people  will  do  the  same  ; that,  if  they  have  the  power,  they 
will  commit  waste  of  every  sort  on  the  estate  of  man- 
kind, and  transmit  it  to  posterity  impoverished  and  deso- 
lated. 

How  is  it  possible  for  any  person  who  holds  the  doctrines 
of  Mr.  Mill  to  doubt  that  the  rich,  in  a democracy  such  as 
that  which  he  recommends,  would  be  pillaged  as  unmerci- 
fully as  under  a Turkish  Pacha?  It  is  no  doubt  for  the  in- 
terest of  the  next  generation,  and  it  may  be  for  the  remote 
interest  of  the  present  generation,  that  property  should  be 
held  sacred.  And  so  no  doubt  it  will  be  for  the  inter- 
est of  the  next  Pacha,  and  even  for  that  of  the  present 
Pacha,  if  he  should  hold  office  long,  that  the  inhabitants  of 
his  Pachalik  should  be  encouraged  to  accumulate  wealth. 
Scarcely  any  despotic  sovereign  has  plundered  his  subjects 
to  a large  extent  without  having  reason  before  the  end  of  his 
reign  to  regret  it.  Everybody  knows  how  bitterly  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  lamented  his 
former  extravagance.  If  that  magnificent  prince  had  not 
expended  millions  on  Marli  and  Versailles,  and  tens  of  mil- 
lions on  the  aggrandizement  of  his  grandson,  he  would  not 
have  been  comj)elled  at  last  to  pay  servile  court  to  low-born 
money-lenders,  to  humble  himself  before  men  on  whom,  in 
the  days  of  his  pride,  he  would  not  have  vouchsafed  to  look, 
for  the  means  of  supporting  even  his  own  household.  Exam- 
ples to  the  same  effect  might  easily  be  multiplied.  But  des- 
pots, we  see,  do  plunder  their  subjects,  though  history  and 
experience  tell  them  that,  by  prematurely  exacting  the  means 
of  profusion,  they  are  in  fact  devouring  the  seed-corn  from 


I 


41*2  Macaulay’s  miscellankous  writings. 

wliich  the  future  harvest  of  revenue  is  to  spring.  Why  then 
should  we  suppose  that  the  people  will  be  deterred  from 
procuring  immediate  relief  and  enjoyment  by  the  fear  of 
distant  calamities,  of  calamities  which  perhaps  may  not  be 
fully  felt  till  the  times  of  their  grandchildren  ? 

These  conclusions  arc  strictly  drawn  from  Mr.  Mill’s  own 
principles:  and,  unlike  most  of  the  conclusions  which  he 
has  himself  drawn  from  those  principles,  they  arc  not,  as 
far  as  we  know,  contradicted  by  facts.  The  case  of  the 
United  States  is  not  in  point.  In  a country  where  the  ne- 
cessaries of  life  are  cheap  and  the  wages  of  labor  high,  where 
a man  who  has  no  capital  but  his  legs  and  arms  may  expect 
to  become  rich  by  industry  and  frugality,  it  is  not  very  de- 
cidedly even  for  the  immediate  advantage  of  the  poor  to 
plunder  the  rich;  and  the  punishment  of  doing  so  would 
very  speedily  follow  the  offence.  But  in  countries  in 
which  the  great  majority  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  in 
which  vast  masses  of  wealth  have  been  accumulated  by  a 
comparatively  small  number,  the  case  is  widely  different. 
The  immediate  want  is,  at  particular  seasons,  craving,  impe- 
rious, irresistible.  In  our  own  time  it  has  steeled  men  to 
the  fear  of  the  gallows,  and  urged  them  on  the  point  of  the 
bayonet.  And,  if  these  men  had  at  their  command  that 
gallows  and  those  bayonets  which  now  scarcely  restrain 
them,  what  is  to  be  expected?  Nor  is  this  state  of  things 
one  which  can  exist  only  under  a bad  government.  If  there 
be  the  least  truth  in  the  doctrines  of  the  school  to  which 
Mr.  Mill  belongs,  the  increase  of  population  will  necessarily 
produce  it  every^vhere.  The  increase  of  population  is  ac- 
celerated by  good  and  cheap  government.  Therefore,  the 
better  the  government,  the  greater  is  the  inequality  of  con- 
ditions : and  the  greater  the  inequality  of  conditions,  the 
stronger  are  the  motives  which  impel  the  populace  to  spo- 
liation. As  for  America,  w’e  appeal  to  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  discuss  the  effects  which 
general  spoliation  of  the  rich  would  produce.  It  may  in- 
deed happen  that,  where  a legal  and  political  system  full  of 
abuses  is  inseparably  bound  up  with  the  institution  of  prop- 
erty, a nation  may  gain  by  a single  convulsion,  in  which 
both  perish  together.  The  price  is  fearful.  But,  if,  when 
the  shock  is  over,  a new  order  of  things  should  arise  under 
which  property  may  enjoy  security,  the  industry  of  individ- 
uals will  soon  repair  the  devastation.  Thus  we  entertain 


MILL^S  ESSAY  ON  GOVEENMENT. 


413 


no  doubt  tliat  the  Revolution  was,  on  tlie  whole,  a most  sal- 
utary event  for  France.  But  would  Franco  have  gained  if, 
ever  since  the  year  1793,  she  had  been  governed  by  a dem- 
ocratic convention  ? If  Mr.  Mill’s  principles  be  sound,  we 
say  that  almost  her  whole  capital  would  by  this  time  have 
been  anniliilated.  As  soon  as  the  first  explosion  was  be- 
ginning to  be  forgotten,  as  soon  as  wealth  again  began  to 
germinate,  as  soon  as  the  poor  again  began  to  compare 
their  cottages  and  salads  witli  the  hotels  and  banquets  of 
the  rich,  there  would  have  been  another  scramble  for  prop- 
erty, ^another  maximum,  another  general  confiscation,  an- 
other reign  of  terror.  Four  or  five  such  convulsions  follow- 
ing each  other,  at  intervals  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  would 
reduce  the  most  fiourishing  countries  of  Europe  to  the  state 
of  Barbary  or  the  Morea. 

The  civilized  part  of  the  world  has  now  nothing  to  fear 
from  the  hostility  of  savage  nations.  Once  the  deluge  of 
barbarism  has  passed  over  it,  to  destroy  and  to  fertilize ; 
and  in  the  present  state  of  mankind  we  enjoy  a full  security 
against  that  calamity.  That  flood  will  no  more  return  to 
cover  the  earth.  But  is  it  possible  that  in  the  bosom  of 
j civilization  itself  may  be  engendered  the  malady  which 
I shall  destroy  it  ? Is  it  possible  that  institutions  may  be 
established  which,  without  the  help  of  earthquake,  of  famine, 
of  pestilence,  or  of  the  foreign  sword,  may  undo  the  work 
of  so  many  ages  of  wisdom  and  glory,  and  gradually  sweep 
away  taste,  literature,  science,  commerce,  manufactures, 
everything  but  the  rude  arts  necessary  to  the  support  of 
animal  life?  Is  it  possible  that,  in  two  or  three  hundred 
years,  a few  lean  and  half-naked  fishermen  may  divide  with 
owls  and  foxes  the  ruins  of  the  greatest  European  cities — 
may  wash  their  nets  amidst  the  relics  of  her  gigantic  docks, 
and  build  their  huts  out  of  the  capitals  of  her  stately  cathe- 
drals ? If  the  principles  of  Mr.  Mill  be  sound,  we  say,  without 
hesitation,  that  the  form  of  government  which  he  recom- 
mends will  assuredly  produce  all  this.  But,  if  these  principles 
be  unsound,  if  the  reasonings  by  which  we  have  opposed  them 
be  just,  the  higher  and  middling  orders  are  the  natural  rep- 
resentatives of  the  human  race.  Their  interests  may  be 
opposed  in  some  things  to  that  of  their  poorer  contempora- 
ries; but  it  is  identical  with  that  of  the  innumerable  gen- 
erations which  are  to  follow. 

Mr.  Mill  concludes  his  essay,  by  answering  an  objection 
often  made  to  the  project  ^f  universal  suffrage — that  the 


414 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


people  do  not  understand  llieir  own  interests.  We  shall  not 
go  through  his  arguments  on  this  subject,  because,  till  he 
has  proved  that  it  is  for  the  interest  of  the  people  to  respect 
property,  he  only  makes  matters  worse  by  proving  that 
they  understand  their  interests.  But  we  cannot  refrain 
from  treating  our  readers  with  a delicious  bonne  bouche  of 
wisdom,  which  he  has  kept  for  the  last  moment. 

“ The  opinions  of  that  class  of  the  people  who  are  below  the  middle  rank 
are  formed,  and  their  minds  are  directed,  by  that  intelligent,  that  virtuous 
rank,  who  come  the  most  immediately  in  contact  with  them,  who  are  in  the 
constant  habit  of  intimate  communication  with  them,  to  whom  they  fly  for 
advice  and  assistance  in  all  their  numerous  difficulties,  upon  whop  they 
feel  an  immediate  and  daily  dependence  in  health  and  in  sickness,  in  infancy 
and  in  old  age,  to  whom  their  children  look  up  as  models  for  their  imitation, 
whose  opinions  they  hear  daily  repeated,  and  account  it  their  honor  to  adopt. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  middle  rank,  which  gives  to  science,  to  art, 
and  to  legislation  itself  their  most  distinguished  ornaments,  and  is  the  chief 
source  of  all  that  has  exalted  and  reflned  human  nature,  is  that  portion  of 
the  community,  of  which,  if  the  basis  of  representation  were  ever  so  far  ex- 
tended, the  opinion  w-ould  ultimately  decide.  Of  the  people  beneath  them, 
a vast  majority  would  be  sure  to  be  guided  by  their  advice  and  example.** 

This  single  paragraph  is  sufficient  to  upset  Mr.  Mill’s 
theory.  Will  the  people  act  against  their  own  interest? 
Or  wull  the  middle  rank  act  against  its  own  interest  ? Or 
is  the  interest  of  the  middle  rank  identical  with  the  in- 
terest of  the  people  ? If  the  people  act  according  to  the  di- 
rections of  the  middle  rank,  as  Mr.  Mill  says  that  they 
assuredly  wdll,  one  of  these  three  questions  must  be  answered 
in  the  affirmative.  But,  if  any  one  of  the  three  be  answered 
in  affirmative,  his  whole  system  falls  to  the  ground.  If  the 
interest  of  the  middle  rank  be  identical  with  that  of  the  peo- 
]de,  why  should  not  the  powers  of  government  be  intrusted 
to  that  rank  ? If  the  powers  of  government  were  intrusted 
to  that  rank,  there  would  evidently  be  an  aristocracy  of 
wealth ; and  “ to  constitute  an  aristocracy  of  wealth, 
though  it  were  a very  numerous  one,  would,”  according  to 
Mr.  Mill,  “leave  the  community  without  protection,  and 
exposed  to  all  the  evils  of  unbridled  power.”  Will  not  the 
same  motives  which  induce  the  middle  classes  to  abuse  one 
kind  of  power  induce  them  to  abuse  another?  If  their  in- 
terests be  the  same  with  that  of  the  people  they  will  govern 
the  people  well.  If  it  be  opposite  to  that  of  the  people  they 
will  advise  the  people  ill.  The  system  of  universal  suffrage, 
therefore,  according  to  Mr.  Mill’s  own  account,  is  only  a 
device  for  doing  circuitously  what  a representative  system, 
with  a pretty  high  qualification,  would  do  directly. 

So  ends  this  celebrated  Essay.  And  such  is  this  philoso- 


tv 


toLL^S  ESSAY  ON  GOVEENMENT. 


415 


phy  for  which  the  experience  of  three  thousand  years  is  to 
be  discarded  ; this  plulosopliy,  the  professors  of  which  speak 
as  if  it  liad  guided  the  world"  to  tlie  knowledge  of  navigation 
and  alpliabetical  writing ; as  if  before  its  dawn,  the  inliabi- 
tants  of  Europe  had  lived  in  caverns  and  eaten  each  other! 
We  are  sick,  it  seems,  like  the  children  of  Israel,  of  the  ob- 
jects of  our  old  and  legitimate  worship.  We  pine  for  anew 
idolatry.  All  that  is  costly  and  all  that  is  ornamental  in 
our  intellectual  treasures  must  be  delivered  up,  and  cast 
into  the  furnace — and  there  comes  out  this  Calf ! 

Our  readers  can  scarcely  mistake  our  object  in  writing 
this  article.  They  will  not  suspect  us  of  any  disposition  to 
advocate  the  cause  of  absolute  monarchy,  or  of  any  narrow 
form  of  oligarchy,  or  to  exaggerate  the  evils  of  popular  gov- 
ernment. Our  object  at  present  is,  not  so  much  to  attack  or 
defend  any  particular  system  of  polity,  as  to  expose  the 
vices  of  a kind  of  reasoning  utterly  unfit  for  moral  and 
political  discussions : of  a kind  of  reasoning  which  may  so 
readily  be  turned  to  purposes  of  falsehood  that  it  ought  to 
receive  no  quarter,  even  when  by  accident  it  may  be  em- 
ployed on  the  side  of  truth. 

Our  objection  to  the  essay  of  Mr.  Mill  is  fundamental. 
We  believe  that  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  deduce  the  science 
■ of  government  from  the  principles  of  human  nature. 

What  proposition  is  there  respecting  human  nature 
which  is  absolutely  and  universally  true?  We  know  of 
only  one  : and  that  is  not  only  true,  but  identical ; that  men 
always  act  from  self-interest.  This  truism  the  Utilitarians 
proclaim  with  as  much  pride  as  if  it  were  new,  and  as  much 
zeal  as  if  it  were  important  But  in  fact,  when  explained, 
it  means  only  that  men,  if  they  can,  will  do  as  they  choose. 
When  we  see  the  actions  of  a man,  we  know  with  certainty 
wdiat  he  thinks  his  interest  to  be.  But  it  is  impossible  to 
reason  wdth  certainty  from  what  we  take  to  be  his  interest 
to  his  actions.  One  man  goes  without  a dinner  that  he  may 
add  a shilling  to  a hundred  thousand  pounds  ; another  runs 
in  debt  to  give  balls  and  masquerades.  One  man  cuts  his 
father’s  throat  to  get  possession  of  his  old  clothes : another 
hazards  his  own  life  to  save  that  of  an  enemy.  One  man 
volunteers  on  a forlorn  hojie : another  is  drummed  out  of  a 
regiment  for  cow  ardice.  Each  of  these  men  has,  no  doubt, 
acted  from  self-interest.  But  we  gain  nothing  by  knowdng 
this,  except  the  pleasure,  if  it  be  one,  of  multiplying  useless 
woids.  In  fact,  this  princijde  is  just  as  recondite  and  just 


41G  Macaulay’s  miscl:llaneous  writings. 

as  important  as  the  great  triitli  that  wliatever  is,  is.  If  a 
philoso])her  were  always  to  state  facts  in  the  following 
form — ‘‘There  is  ,a  shower:  but  whatever  is,  is ; lherefor(‘, 
there  is  a shower,” — his  reasoning  would  be  perfectly  sound  : 
but  we  do  not  apprehend  that  it  would  materially  enlarge 
the  circle  of  human  knowledge.  And  it  is  equally  idle  to 
attribute  any  importance  to  a proposition  which,  when  in- 
terpreted, means  only  that  a man  had  rather  do  what  he 
Lad  rather  do. 

If  the  doctrine,  that  men  always  act  from  self-interest, 
be  laid  down  in  any  other  sense  than  this — if  the  meaning 
of  the  Avord  self-interest  be  narrowed  s ) as  to  exclude  any 
one  of  the  motives  which  may  by  possibility  act  on  any 
human  being, — the  proposition  ceases  to  be  identical ; but 
at  the  same  time  it  ceases  to  be  true. 

What  we  have  said  of  the  Avord  “ self-interest  ” applies 
to  all  the  synonymes  and  circumlocutions  Avhich  are  em- 
ployed to  convey  the  same  meaning;  pain  and  pleasure, 
happiness  and  misery,  objects  of  desire,  and  so  forth. 

The  Avhole  art  of  ]\Ir.  Mill’s  essay  consists  in  one  simple 
trick  of  legerdemain.  It  consists  in  using  AA'ords  of  the  sort 
which  Ave  have  been  describing  first  in  one  sense  and  then 
in  another.  Men  Avill  take  the  objects  of  their  desire  if  they 
can.  Unquestionably: — but  this  is  an  identical  proposi 
tion  ; for  an  object  of  desire  means  merely  a thing  Avhich  a 
man  Avill  procure  if  he  can.  Nothing  can  possibly  be  in- 
ferred from  a maxim  of  this  kind.  When  Ave  see  a man 
take  something  Ave  shall  knoAv  that  it  Avas  an  object  of  his 
desire.  *But  till  then  Ave  haA^e  no  means  of  judging  Avith 
certainty  Avhat  he  desires  or  Avhat  he  Avill  take.  The  gene  ral 
proposition,  hoAvever,  haAung  been  admitted,  Mr.  Mill  pro- 
ceeds to  reason  as  if  men  had  no  desires  but  those  Avhich 
can  be  gratified  only  by  spoliation  and  oppression.  It  then 
becomes  easy  to  deduce  doctrines  of  vast  importance  from 
the  original  axiom.  The  only  misfortune  is,  that  by  thus 
narrowing  the  meaning  of  the  Avord  desires  the  axiom  be* 
comes  false,  and  all  the  doctrines  consequent  upon  it  are 
false  likewise. 

When  Ave  pass  beyond  those  maxims  Avhich  it  is  im- 
possible to  deny  without  a contradiction  in  terms,  and  Avhich 
therefore,  do  not  enable  us  to  advance  a single  step  in  prac- 
tical knowledge,  Av^e  do  not  believe  that  it  is  possible  to  lay 
down  a single  general  rule  respecting  the  motives  which 
influence  human  actions.  Ther^  is  nothing  which  may  not, 


mill's  essay  ox  government.  417 

by  association  or  by  comparison,  become  an  object  either 
of  desire  or  of  aversion.  The  fear  of  deatli  is  generally 
considered  as  one  of  the  strongest  of  our  feelings.  It  is  the 
most  formidable  sanction  which  legislators  haA^e  been  able 
to  devise.  Yet  it  is  notorious  that,  as  Lord  Bacon  has  ob- 
served, there  is  no  passion  by  which  that  fear  has  not  been 
often  overcome.  Physical  pain  is  indisputably  an  evil : yet 
it  has  been  often  endured,  and  even  welcomed.  Innumer- 
able martyrs  have  exulted  in  torments  Avhich  made  the 
spectators  shudder ; and  to  use  a more  homely  illustraticn, 
there  are  few  Avives  Avho  do  not  long  to  be  mothers. 

Is  the  loA^e  of  approbation  a stronger  motive  than  the 
love  of  wealth?  It  is  impossible  to  ansAver  this  question 
generally  eA^en  in  tlie  case  of  an  individual  with  whom  we 
are  very  intimate.  We  often  say,  indeed,  that  a man  loves 
fame  more  than  money  or  money  more  than  fame.  But 
this  is  said  in  a loose  and  popular  sense  ; for  there  is  scarcely 
a man  who  AA^ould  not  endure  a few  sneers  for  a great  sum 
of  money,  if  he  were  in  pecuniary  distress  ; and  scarcely  a 
man,  on  the  other  hand,  Avho,  if  he  were  in  flourishing  cir- 
cumstances, would  expose  himself  to  the  hatred  and  con- 
tempt of  the  public  for  a trifle.  In  order,  therefore,  to 
return  a precise  answer  eA^en  about  a single  human  being, 
Av^e  must  knoAv  Avhat  is  the  amount  of  the  sacrifice  of  repu- 
tation demanded  and  of  the  pecuniary  advantage  offered, 
and  in  Avhat  situation  the  person  to  Avhom  the  temptation  is 
proposed  stands  at  the  time.  But,  Avhen  the  question  is 
propounded  generally  about  the  Avhole  sj^ecies,  the  impossi- 
bility of  ansAvering  is  still  more  evident.  Man  differs  from 
man ; generation  from  generation ; nation  from  nation. 
Education,  station,  sex,  age,  accidental  associations,  j^ro- 
duce  infinite  shades  of  A'ariety. 

'NoWy  the  only  mode  in  which  Ave  can  conceive  it  possible 
to  deduce  a theory  of  gOA^ernment  from  the  principles  of 
human  nature  is  this.  We  must  find  out  Avhat  aie  the  mo- 
tives Avhich,  in  a particular  form  of  government,  impel  rulers 
to  bad  measures,  and  what  are  those  which  impel  them  to 
good  measures.  We  must  then  compare  the  effect  of  the 
tAA^o  classes  of  inotiA^es  ; and,  according  as  we  find  the  one 
or  the  other  to  preA^ail,  w^e  must  pronounce  the  form  of 
government  in  question  good  or  bad. 

Noav  let  it  be  supposed  that,  in  aristocratical  and  mon- 
archical states,  the  desire  of  Avealtli  and  other  desires  of  the 
same  class  ahvays  tend  to  produce  misgoA^ernment,  and  that 
VoL.  I.— 27 


418 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


the  love  of  Ji|)prol>ation  and  other  kindred  feelings  always 
tend  to  produce  good  govei-nment.  Then,  if  it  be  impossible 
as  w'e  have  sliown  that  it  is,  to  ])ronounce  generally  which 
of  the  two  classes  of  motives  is  the  more  influential,  it  is  im- 
possible to  find  out,  a priori^  whether  a monarchical  or 
aristocratical  form  of  government  be  good  or  bad. 

Mr.  Mill  has  avoided  the  difficulty  of  making  the  compar- 
ison, by  very  coolly  putting  all  the  weights  into  one  of  the 
Beales, — by  reasoning  as  if  no  human  being  had  ever  sym- 

{)atliized  with  the  feelings,  been  gratified  by  the  thanks,  or 
)een  galled  by  the  execrations,  of  another. 

The  case,  as  we  have  put  it,  is  decisive  against  Mr. 
J\Iill ; and  yet  we  have  put  it  in  a manner  far  too  favorable 
to  him.  For,  in  fact,  it  is  impossible  to  lay  it  down  as  a 
general  rule  that  the  love  of  wealth  in  a sovereign  always 
produces  misgovernment,  or  the  love  of  approbation  good 
government.  A patient  and  far-sighted  ruler,  for  example, 
who  is  less  desirous  of  raising  a great  sum  immediately  than 
of  securing  an  unencumbered  and  progressive  revenue,  will, 
by  taking  off  restraints  from  trade  and  giving  perfect  security 
to  property,  encourage  accumulation  and  entice  capital 
from  foreign  countries.  The  commercial  policy  of  Prussia, 
which  is  perhaps  superior  to  that  of  any  country  in  the 
world,  and  which  puts  to  shame  the  absurdities  of  our  re- 
publican brethren  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  has 
probably  sprung  from  the  desire  of  an  absolute  ruler  to 
enrich  himself.  On  the  other  hand,  when  the  popular  es- 
timate of  virtues  and  vices  is  erroneous,  which  is  too  often 
the  case,  the  love  of  approbation  leads  sovereigns  to  spend 
the  wealth  of  the  nation  on  useless  show^s,  or  to  engage  in 
wanton  and  destructive  wars.  If  then  we  can  neither  com- 
pare the  strength  of  two  motives,  nor  determine  with  cer- 
tiinty  to  what  description  of  actions  either  motive  will  lead, 
how  can  we  possibly  deduce  a theory  of  government  from 
the  nature  of  man  ? 

How,  then,  are  we  to  arrive  at  just  conclusions  on  a sub- 
ject so  important  to  the  happiness  of  mankind  ? Surely  by 
that  method  which,  in  every  experimental  science  to  which  it 
had  been  applied,  has  signally  increased  the  power  and  knowl- 
edge of  our  species, — by  that  method  for  which  our  new  phi- 
losophers would  substitute  quibbles  scarcely  worthy  of  the 
barbarous  respondents  and  opponents  of  the  middle  ages,— by 
the  method  of  Induction  ; — by  observing  the  present  state 
of  the  world, — ^by  assiduously  studying  the  history  of  past 


M1LL*S  ESSAY  ON  GOVERNMENT. 


419 


ages, — ^by  sifting  the  evidence  of  facts, — ^by  carefully  com- 
bining and  contrasting  those  which  are  authentic, — by  gen- 
eralizing with  judgment  and  diffidence,  — by  perpetually 
bringing  the  theory  which  we  have  constructed  to  the  test 
of  new  facts, — by  correcting,  or  altogether  abandoning  it, 
according  as  those  new  facts  prove  it  to  be  partially  or 
fundamentally  unsound.  Proceeding  thus, — patiently, — 
diligently, — candidly, — we  may  hope  to  form  a system  as 
far  inferior  in  pretension  to  that  which  we  have  been  ex- 
amining and  as  far  superior  to  it  in  real  utility  as  the  pre- 
scriptions of  a great  ])hysician,  varying  with  every  stage  ot 
every  malady  and  with  the  constitution  of  every  patient,  to 
the  pill  of  the  advertising  quack  which  is  to  cure  all  human 
beings,  in  all  climates,  of  all  diseases. 

This  is  that  noble  Science  of  Politics,  which  is  equally 
removed  from  the  barren  theories  of  the  Utilitarian  sophiste 
and  from  the  petty  craft,  so  often  mistaken  for  statesman- 
ship by  minds  grown  narrow  in  habits  of  intrigue,  jobbing, 
and  official  etiquette  ; — which  of  all  sciences  is  the  most  im- 
portant to  the  welfare  of  nations, — which  of  all  sciences 
most  tends  to  expand  and  invigorate  the  mind, — which 
draws  nutriment  and  ornament  from  every  part  of  philoso- 
phy and  literature,  and  dispenses  in  return  nutriment  and 
ornament  to  all.  We  are  sorry  and  surprised  when  we  see 
men  of  good  intentions  and  good  natural  abilities  abandon 
this  healthful  and  generous  study  to  pore  over  speculations 
like  those  which  we  have  been  examining.  And  we  should 
heartily  rejoice  to  find  that  our  remarks  had  induced  any 
person  of  this  description  to  employ,  in  researches  of  leal 
utility,  the  talents  and  industry  which  are  now  wasted  on 
verbal  sophisms,  wretched  of  their  wretched  kind. 

As  to  the  greater  part  of  the  sect,  it  is,  we  apprehend, 
of  little  consequence  what  they  study  or  under  v/hom.  It 
would  be  more  amusing,  to  be  sure,  and  more  rei)utable,  if 
they  would  take  up  the  old  republican  cant  and  declaim 
about  Brutus  and  Timoleon,  the  duty  of  killing  tyrants  and 
the  blessedness  of  dying  for  liberty.  But,  on  the  whole, 
they  might  have  chosen  worse.  They  may  as  well  be 
Utilitarians  as  jockeys  or  dandies.  And,  though  quibbling 
about  self-interest  and  motives,  and  objects  of  desire,  and 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number,  is  but  a poor 
employment  for  a grown  man,  it  certainly  hurts  the  health 
less  than  hard  drinking  and  the  fortune  less  than  high  play ; 
it  is  not  much  more  laughable  than  phrenology,  and  is  im- 
measurably more  humane  than  cock  fighting. 


420 


Macaulay’s  miscellanmous  waiiiNtt*. 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWER’S  DEFENCE  OF 
MILL* 

{Edinburgh  Revieio,  June^  1829. ) 

We  have  had  great  reason,  we  think,  to  be  gratified 
[>y  the  success  of  our  late  attack  on  the  Utilitarians.  We 
could  publish  a long  list  of  the  cures  which  it  had  wrought 
in  cases  previously  considered  as  hopeless.  Delicacy  for- 
bids us  to  divulge  names  ; but  we  cannot  refrain  from  al- 
luding to  two  remarkable  instances.  A respectable  lady 
writes  to  inform  us  that  her  son,  who  was  plucked  at  Cam- 
bridge last  January,  has  not  been  heard  to  call  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  a poor  ignorant  fool  more  than  twice  since  the 
appearance  of  our  article.  A distinguished  political  writer  in 
the  Westminster  and  Parliamentary  Reviews  has  borrowed 
Hume’s  History,  and  has  actually  got  as  far  as  the  battle  of 
Agincourt.  He  assures  us  that  he  takes  great  pleasure  in  his 
new  study,  and  that  he  is  very  impatient  to  learn  how  Scot- 
land and  England  became  one  kingdom.  But  the  greatest 
compliment  that  we  have  received  is  that  Mr.  Bentham  him- 
self should  have  condescended  to  take  the  field  in  defence 
of  Mr.  Mill.  We  have  not  been  in  the  habit  of  reviewing 
reviews ; but,  as  Mr.  Bentham  is  a truly  great  man,  and  as 
his  party  have  thought  fit  to  announce  in  puffs  and  placards 
that  this  article  is  written  by  him,  and  contains  not  only 
an  answer  to  our  attacks,  but  a development  of  the  “ great- 
est happiness  principle,”  w ith  the  latest  improvements  of 
the  author,  we  shall  for  once  depart  from  our  general  rule. 
However  the  conflict  may  terminate,  we  shall  at  least  not 
have  beep  vanquished  by  an  ignoble  hand. 

Of  Mr.  Bentham  himself  we  shall  endeavor,  even  while 
defending  ourselves  against  his  reproaches,  to  speak  with 
the  respect  to  which  his  venerable  age,  his  genius,  and 
h"s  public  services  entitle  him.  If  any  harsh  expression 
should  escape  us,  we  trust  that  he  will  attribute  it  to  inad- 
vertence, to  the  momentary  warmth  of  controversy, — to 
anything,  in  short,  rather  than  to  a design  of  affronting  him. 
Though  we  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  crew  of  Hurds 

* The  Wfstminster  Heview.  No.  XX T.  Article  XVI.  Edinburgh  Review 
No.  XCVIL  Article  on  Mill's  Essays  on  Government ^ dc. 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWER’S  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  421 

and  Boswells,  who,  either  from  interested  motives,  or  from 
the  habit  of  intellectual  servility  and  dependence,  pamper 
and  vitiate  his  appetite  with  the  noxious  sweetness  of  their 
undiscerning  praise,  we  are  not  perhaps  less  competent  than 
they  to  appreciate  his  merit,  or  less  sincerely  disposed  to 
acknowledge  it.  Though  we  may  sometimes  think  his  rea- 
sonings on  moral  and  political  questions  feeble  and  sophis- 
tical— though  we  may  sometimes  smile  at  his  extraordinary 
language — we  can  never  be  weary  of  admiring  the  amplitude 
of  his  comprehension,  the  keenness  of  his  penetration,  the 
exuberant  fertility  with  which  his  mind  pours  forth  argu- 
ments and  illustrations.  However  sharply  he  may  speak 
of  us,  we  can  never  cease  to  revere  in  him  the  father  of  the 
philosophy  of  Jurisprudence.  He  has  a full  right  to  all  the 
privileges  of  a great  inventor  ; and  in  our  court  of  criticism 
those  privileges  will  never  be  pleaded  in  vain.  But  they  are 
limited  in  the  same  manner  in  which,  fortunately  for  the  ends 
of  justice,  the  privileges  of  the  peerage  are  now  limited. 
The  advantage  is  personal  and  incommunicable.  A noble- 
man can  now  no  longer  cover  with  his  protection  every 
lackey  who  follows  his  heels,  or  every  bully  who  draws  in 
his  quarrel : and,  highly  as  we  respect  the  exalted  rank  which 
Mr.  Bentham  holds  among  the  writers  of  our  time,  yet  when, 
for  the  due  maintenance  of  literary  police,  we  shall  think  it 
necessary  to  ^confute  sophists,  or  to  bring  pretenders  to 
shame,  we  shall  not  depart  from  the  ordinary  course  of  our 
proceedings  because  the  offenders  call  themselves  Bentham- 
ites. 

Whether  Mr.  Mill  has  much  reason  to  thank  Mr.  Ben- 
tham for  undertaking  his  defence,  our  readers,  when  they 
have  finished  this  article,  will  perhaps  be  inclined  to  doubt. 
Great  as  Mr.  Bentham’s  talents  are,  he  has,  we  think,  shown 
an  undue  confidence  in  them.  He  should  have  considered 
how  dangerous  it  is  for  any  man,  however  eloquent  and  in- 
genious he  may  be,  to  attack  or  defend  a book  without  read- 
ing it:  and  we  feel  quite  convinced  that  Mr.  Bentham 
would  never  have  written  the  article  before  us  if  he  had, 
before  he  began,  perused  our  review  with  attention,  and 
compared  it  with  Mr.  Mill’s  Essay. 

He  has  utterly  mistaken  our  object  and  meaning.  He 
seems  to  think  that  we  have  undertaken  to  set  up  some 
theory  of  government  in  opposition  to  that  of  Mr.  Mill. 
But  we  distinctly  disclaimed  any  such  design.  From  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  our  article,  there  is  not,  as  far  as  we 


f 


422  Macaulay’s  misckllameous  wkitungs. 

remember,  a single  sentence  wliicli,  when  fairly  construed, 
can  be  considered  as  indicating  any  sucli  design.  If  such 
expressions  can  be  found,  it  has  been  dropped  by  inadver- 
tence. Our  object  was  to  prove,  not  that  monarchy  and  ar- 
istocracy are  good,  but  that  Mr.  Mill  liad  not  proved  them 
to  be  bad;  not  that  democracy  is  bad,  but  that  Mr.  Mill 
had  not  proved  it  to  be  good.  The  points  in  issue  are 
these:  whether  the  famous  Essay  on  Government  be,  as  it 
has  been  called,  a perfect  solution  of  the  great  political  prol> 
lem,  or  a series  of  sophisms  and  blunders  ; and  whether  the 
sect  which,  while  it  glories  in  the  precision  of  its  logic, 
extols  this  Essay  as  a masterpiece  of  demonstration,  be  a sect 
deserving  of  the  respect  or  of  the  derision  of  mankind.  These, 
we  say,  are  the  issues : and  on  these  we  with  full  confi- 
dence put  ourselves  on  the  country. 

It  is  not  necessary,  for  the  purposes  of  this  investigation, 
that  we  should  state  what  our  political  creed  is,  or  whether 
we  have  any  political  creed  at  all.  A man  wlio  cannot  act 
the  most  trivial  part  in  a farce  has  a right  to  hiss  Romeo 
Coates : a man  who  does  not  know  a vein  from  an  artery 
may  caution  a simple  neighbor  against  the  advertisements 
of  Dr.  Eady.  A complete  theory  of  government  would  in- 
deed be  a noble  present  to  mankind ; but  it  is  a i^resent  which 
we  do  not  hope  and  do  not  pretend  that  we  can  offer.  If, 
however,  we  cannot  lay  the  foundation,  it  is«something  to 
clear  away  the  rubbish ; if  we  cannot  set  up  truth,  it  is 
something  to  pull  down  error.  Even  if  the  subjects  of  w^hich 
thu  Utilitarians  treat  were  subjects  of  less  fearful  importance, 
we  should  think  it  no  small  service  to  the  cause  of  good 
sense  and  good  taste  to  point  out  the  contrast  between  their 
magnificent  pretensions  and  their  miserable  performance. 
Some  of  them  have,  however,  thought  fit  to  display  their  in- 
genuity on  questions  of  the  most  momentous  kind,  and  on 
questions  concerning  which  men  cannot  reason  ill  with  im- 
punity. We  think  it,  under  these  circumstances,  an  abso- 
lute duty  to  expose  the  fallacy  of  their  arguments.  It  is  no 
matter  of  pride  or  of  pleasure.  To  read  their  wmrks  is  the 
most  soporific  employment  that  we  know ; and  a man  ought 
no  more  to  be  proud  of  refuting  them  than  of  having  two 
legs.  We  must  now  come  to  close  quarters  with  Mr.  Ben- 
tham,  whom,  we  need  not  say,  we  do  not  mean  to  include  in 
this  observation.  He  charges  us  with  maintaining, — 

“ First,  ‘ That  it  is  not  true  that  all  despots  govern  ill ; * — whereon  the 
world  is  in  a mistaUe,  and  the  Whigs  have  the  true  light.  And  for  proot 


WEST2tfIN8TER  REVIEWER’S  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  423 


princif>ally,— that  the  King  of  Denmark  is  not  Caligula.  To  which  the 
answer  is,  that  tlie  King  of  Denmark  is  not  a desi)ot.  He  was  jmt  in  his 
present  situation  1)3’^  the  people  turning  tlie  scale  in  his  favor  in  a balanced 
contest  between  himself  and  the  nobilit3\  And  it  is  quite  clear  that  the 
same  ix>wer  would  turn  the  scale  the  other  way  the  moment  a King  of  Den- 
mark should  take  into  his  head  to  be  Caligula.  It  is  of  little  consequence 
' by  what  congeries  of  letters  the  Majesty  of  Denmark  is  typified  in  the  royal 
press  of  Copenhagen,  while  the  rei  fact  is  that  the  sword  of  the  people  is 
susjiended  over  his  head,  in  case  of  ill-behavior,  as  effectually  as  in  other 
countries  w'here  more  noise  is  made  upon  the  subject.  Pwerybody  believes 
tlie  sovereign  of  Denmark  to  be  a good  and  virtuous  gentleman  ; but  there 
i£  no  more  superhiiinan  merit  in  his  being  so  than  in  tlie  case  of  a rural 
squire  who  does  not  shoot  his  land-steward  or  quarter  his  wife  with  his 
yeomanry  sabre. 

“ It  is  true  that  there  are  partial  exceptions  to  the  rule,  that  all  men  use 
power  as  badly  as  they  dare.  There  may  have  been  such  things  as  amiable 
negro-drivers  and  sentimental  masters  of  press-gangs  ; and  here  and  there, 
among  the  old  freaks  of  human  nature,  there  may  have  been  specimens  of 
men  w^ho  were  ‘ No  tyrants,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny.’  But  it  would  be 
as  wise  to  recommend  wolves  for  nurses  at  the  Foundling  on  the  credit  of 
Romulus  and  Remus  as  to  substitute  the  exception  for  the  general  fact,  and 
advise  mankind  to  take  to  trusting  to  arbitrary  power  oh  the  credit  of  these 
specimens.’* 

Now,  in  the  first  place,  we  never  cited  the  case  of  Den- 
mark to  prove  that  all  despots  do  not  govern  ill.  We  cited 
it  to  prove  that  Mr.  Mill  did  not  know  how  to  reason.  Mr. 
Mill  gave  it  as  a reason  for  deducing  the  theory  of  govern- 
ment from  the  general  laws  of  human  nature,  that  the  King 
of  Denmark  was  not  Caligula.  This  we  said,  and  we  still 
say,  was  absurd. 

In  the  second  place,  it  was  not  we,  but  Mr.  Mill,  who 
said  that  the  King  of  Denmark  w as  a despot.  His  words 
are  these  : — “ The  people  of  Denmark,  tired  out  with  the 
oppression  of  an  aristocracy,  resolved  that  their  king  should 
be  absolute  ; and  under  their  absolute  monarch  are  as  well 
governed  as  any  peo])le  in  Europe.”  We  leave  Mr.  Bentham 
to  settle  with  Mr.  Mill  the  distinction  between  a despot  and 
an  absolute  king. 

In  the  third  place,  Mr.  Bentham  says  that  there  was  in 
Denmark  a ^balanced  contest  between  the  king  and  the 
nobility.  We  find  some  difiiculty  in  believing  that  Mr. 
Bentham  seriously  means  to  say  this,  when  we  consider  that 
Mr.  Mill  has  demonstrated  the  chance  to  be  as  infinity  to 
oue  against  the  existence  of  such  a balanced  contest. 

Fourthly,  Mr.  Bentham  says  that  in  this  balanced  com 
test  the  people  turned  the  scale  in  favor  of  the  king  against 
the  aristocracy.  But  Mr.  Mill  has  demonstrated  that  it  can- 
not possibly  be  for  the  interest  of  the  monarchy  and  democ- 
racy to  join  against  the  aristocracy  ; and  that,  wherever  the 
thv^Q  parties  exist,  the  kin;-  and  the  aristocracy  will  combine 


424  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WlUtlNGft. 

against  the  people.  Tliis,  Mr.  Mill  assures  us,  is  as  certain 
an  anytliing  which  (1c|)en(ls  ii])on  liiiinan  will. 

Fifthly,  Mr.  ilentliani  says  that,  if  the  King  of  Denmark 
were  to  oj)press  his  people,  the  ])Cople  and  nobles  wculd  com- 
bine against  the  king.  But  Mr.  Mill  has  j>roved  that  it  can 
never  be  for  the  interest  of  the  aristocracy  to  combine  with 
the  democracy  against  the  king.  It  is  evidently  Mr.  Ben- 
tham’s  opinion,  that  “ monarchy,  aristocracy,  and  democracy 
may  balance  each  other,  and  by  mutual  checks  produce  good 
government.”  But  this  is  the  very  theory  which  Mr.  Mill 
pronounces  to  be  the  wildest,  the  most  visionary,  the  most 
chimerical  ever  broached  on  the  subject  of  government. 

We  have  no  dispute  on  these  heads  with  Mr.  Bentham. 
On  the  contrary,  we  think  his  explanation  true — or,  at  least, 
true  in  part  ; and  we  heartily  thank  him  for  lending  us  his 
assistance  to  demolish  the  essay  of  liis  follower.  His  wit 
and  his  sarcasm  are  sport  to  us  ; but  they  are  death  to  his 
unhappy  disciple. 

Mr.  Bentham  seems  to  imagine  that  we  have  said  some- 
thing implying  an  opinion  favorable  to  despotism.  We 
can  scarcely  suppose  that,  as  he  has  not  condescended  to 
read  that  portion  of  our  work  which  he  undertook  to  answer, 
he  can  have  bestowed  much  attention  on  its  general  char- 
acter. Had  he  done  so  he  would,  we  think,  scarcely  have 
entertained  such  a suspicion.  Mr.  Mill  asserts,  and  pretends 
to  prove,  that  under  no  despotic  government  does  any  human 
being,  exce]3t  the  tools  of  the  sovereign,  possess  more  than 
the  necessaries  of  life,  and  that  the  most  intense  degree  of 
terror  is  kept  up  by  constant  cruelty.  This,  we  say,  is  untrue. 
It  is  not  merely  a rule  to  which  there  are  exceptions  : but  it 
ii  not  the  rule.  Despotism  is  bad  ; but  it  is  scarcely  any- 
where so  bad  as  Mr.  Mill  says  that  it  is  everywhere.  This 
we  are  sure  Mr.  Bentham  will  allow\  If  a man  were  to  say 
that  five  hundred  thousand  people  die  every  year  in  London 
of  dram-drinking,  he  would  not  assert  a proposition  more 
monstrously  false  than  Mr.  Mill’s.  Would  it  be  just  to  charge 
us  with  defending  intoxication  because  we  might  say  that 
such  a man  Avas  grossly  in  the  Avrong  V 

We  say  Avith  Mr.  Bentham  that  despotiem  is  a bad  thing. 
We  say  AvithMr.  Bentham  that  the  exceptions  do  not  destroy 
the  authority  of  the  rule.  But  this  we  say — that  a single 
exception  overthroAVS  an  argument  which  either  does  not 
prove  the  rule  at  all,  or  else  proves  the  rule  to  be  true  with- 
out exceptions  / and  such  an  argument  is  Mr.  Mill’s  argument 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWERS  DEFENCE  OF  MILL. 


425 


against  despotism.  In  tliis  respect  there  is  a great  difference 
between  rules  drawn  from  experience  and  rules  deduced  a 
priori.  Wc  might  believe  that  there  had  been  a fall  of  snow 
last  August,  and  yet  not  think  it  likely  that  there  would  be 
snow  next  August.  A single  occurrence  opposed  to  our 
general  experience  would  tell  for  very  little  in  our  calcula- 
tion of  the  chances.  But,  if  we  could  once  satisfy  ourselves 
that  in  any  single  right-angled  triangle  the  square  of  the 
hypothenuse  might  be  less  than  the  squares  of  the  sides,  wo 
must  reject  the  forty-seventh  jDroposition  of  Euclid  alto- 
gether. W e willingly  adopt  Mr.  Bentham’s  lively  illustration 
about  the  wolf  ; and  we  will  say  in  passing  that  it  gives  us 
real  jdeasure  to  see  how  little  old  age  has  diminished  the 
gayety  of  this  eminent  man.  We  can  assure  him  that  his 
merriment  gives  us  far  more  pleasure  on  his  account  than 
pain  on  our  own.  We  say  with  him.  Keep  the  wolf  out  of 
the  nursery,  in  spite  of  the  story  of  Romulus  and  Remus. 
But,  if  the  shepherd  who  saw  the  wolf  licking  and  suckling 
those  famous  twins  were,  after  telling  thi-s  story  to  his 
companions,  to  assert  that  it  \vas  an  infallible  rule  that  no 
wolf  ever  had  spared,  or  ever  would  spare,  any  living  thing 
which  might  fall  in  its  way — that  its  nature  was  carnivorous 
— and  that  it  could  not  possibly  disobey  its  nature,  'we  think 
that  the  hearers  might  have  been  excused  for  staring.  It 
may  be  strange,  but  not  inconsistent,  that  a wolf  which  has 
eaten  ninety-nine  children  should  spare  the  hundredth.  But 
the  fact  that  a w^olf  has  once  spared  a child  is  sufficient  to 
show  that  there  must  be  some  flaw  in  the  chain  of  reason- 
ing purporting  to  prove  that  wolves  cannot  possibly  spare 
children. 

Mr.  Bentham  proceeds  to  attack  another  position  which 
he  conceives  us  to  maintain  : — 


“ Secondly,  That  a government  not  under  the  control  of  the  community 
(for  there  is  no  question  upon  any  other)  ‘ may  soon  he  saturated.^  Tell  it 
notin  Bow-street,  whisper  it  not  in  Hatton-garden— that  there  is  a plan 
for  preventing  injustice  by  ‘saturation.’  With  what  peals  of  unearthly 
merriment  would  Minos,  .^acus,  and  Rhadamanth us  be  aroused  upon  their 
benches,  if  the  ‘ light  wings  of  saffron  and  of  blue  ’ should  bear  this  theory 
into  their  grim  domains  ! Why  do  not  the  owners  of  pocl^et-hand kerchiefs 
try  to  ‘ saturate  ? ’ Why  does  not  the  cheated  publican  beg  leave  to  check 
the  gulosity  of  his  defrauder  with  a repetatur  haiistus,  and  the  pummelled 
plaintiff  neutralize  the  malice  of  his  adversary,  by  requesting  to  have  the 
rest  of  the  beating  in  presence  of  the  court, — if  it  is  not  that  such  conduct 
would  run  counter  to  all  the  conclusions  of  experience,  and  be  the  procreation 
of  the  mischief  it  affected  to  destroy  ? Wof  ul  is  the  man  whose  wealth  depends 
oil  his  having  more  than  somebody  else  can  be  persuaded  to  take  from  him; 
and  wofol  also  is  the  people  that  is  in  such  a ease  I” 


426 


Macaulay’s  misceli.aneous  avkitingr. 


Now  tliis  is  certainly  very  j)lcasant  writing  : hut  there 
is  no  great  difficulty  in  answering  the  argument.  The  real 
reason  whicli  makes  it  absurd  to  think  of  ])reventing  theft 
by  pensioning  off  thieves  is  this,  that  tlierc  is  no  limit  to 
the  number  of  thieves.  If  there  were  only  a liundred  thieves 
in  a place,  and  we  were  quite  sure  that  no  person  not  already 
addicted  to  theft  would  take  to  it,  it  might  become  a ques- 
tion whether  to  keep  the  thieves  from  dishonesty  by  raising 
them  above  distress  would  not  be  a better  course  than  to  cm- 
])loy  officers  against  them.  But  the  actual  cases  are  not 
parallel.  Every  man  who  chooses  can  become  a thief  ; but 
a man  cannot  become  a king  or  a member  of  the  aristoc* 
racy  ’whenever  he  choses.  The  number  of  the  depredators 
is  limited  ; and  therefore  the  amount  of  depredation,  so  far 
as  physical  pleasures  are  concerned,  must  be  limited  also. 
Now,  we  made  the  remark  which  Mr.  Bentham  censures  with 
reference  to  physical  pleasures  only.  The  pleasures  of  os- 
tentation, of  taste,  of  revenge,  and  other  pleasures  of  the 
same  description,  have,  we  distinctly  allowed,  no  limit.  Our 
Avords  are  these  : — ‘‘  A king  or  an  aristocracy  may  be  sup- 
plied to  satiety  with  corporal  pleasures^  at  an  ex]:)ense  which 
the  rudest  and  poorest  community  would  scarcely  feel.” 
Does  Mr.  Bentham  deny  this  ? If  he  does,  w^e  leave  him  to 
Mr.  Mill.  “ What,”  says  that  j^hilosopher,  in  his  Essay  on 
Education,  “ what  are  the  ordinary  pursuits  of  vrealth  and 
power,  which  kindle  to  such  a height  the  ardor  of  mankind  ? 
Not  the  mere  love  of  eating  and  of  drinking,  or  all  the 
physical  objects  together  w hich  wealth  can  purchase  or  power 
command.  With  these  every  man  is  in  the  long  run 
speedily  satisfied.”  What  the  difference  is  between  being 
speedily  satisfied  and  being  soon  saturated,  w^e  leave  Mr. 
Bentham  and  Mr.  Mill  to  settle  together. 

The  w^ord  ‘ saturation,’  however,  seems  to  provoke  Mr. 
Bentham’s  mirth.  It  certainly  did  not  strike  us  as  very 

Eure  English;  but,  as  Mr.  Mill  used  it,  w^e  supposed  it  1o 
e good  Benthamese.  With  the  latter  language  w^e  are  not 
critically  acquainted,  though,  as  it  has  many  roots  in  com- 
mon wdth  our  mother  tongue,  we  can  contrive,  by  the  help 
of  a converted  Utilitarian,  wdio  attends  us  in  the  capacity 
of  Moonshee,  to  make  out  a little.  But  Mr.  Bentham’s  au« 
thority  is  of  course  decisive ; and  we  bow  to  it. 

Mr.  Bentham  next  represents  us  as  maintaining  : — 

“ Thirdly,  That  ‘ though  there  may  be  some  tastes  and  propensities  that 
have  ng  point  of  saturation,  there  eisists  a sutScient  check  hi  the  desk©  of  th© 


WKSTMINSTEK  BEVlEWEll’s  DEFENCE  OF  MILL. 


421 


good  opinion  of  others/  The  misfortune  of  this  argument  is,  that  no  man 
cares  for  til e good  opinion  of  those  he  has  been  acrustomed  to  wrong.  If 
oysters  have  opinions,  it  is  probable  they  think  very  ill  of  those  who  eat 
them  in  August  ; but  small  is  the  effect  upon  the  autumnal  glutton  that  en- 
gulfs their  gentle  substances  within  his  own.  The  planter  and  the  slave- 
driver  care  just  as  much  about  negro  opinion,  as  the  epicures  about  the  sen- 
timents of  oysters.  M.  Ude  throwing  live  eels  into  the  fire  as  a kindly 
method  of  divesting  them  of  the  unsavory  oil  that  lodges  beneath  their 
skins,  is  not  more  convinced  of  the  immense  aggregate  of  good  which  arises 
to  the  lordlier  parts  of  the  creation,  than  is  the  gentle  peer  who  strips  his 
fellow-man  of  country  and  of  family  tor  a wild-fowl  slain,  'ihe  goodly  land- 
owner,  who  lives  by  morsels  squeezed  indiscriminately  from  the  waxy  hands 
of  the  cobbler  and  the  polluted  ones  of  the  nightman,  is  in  no  small  degree 
the  object  of  both  hatred  and  contempt  ; but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  is  a 
long  way  from  feeling  them  to  be  intolerable.  The  principle  of  ‘ Atmihi 
filaudo  ipfie  domi,  simid  ac  nummos  contemplor  in  area,  is  suflficient  to  make 
a wide  interval  between  the  opinions  of  the  plaintiff  and  defendant  in  such 
cases.  In  short,  to  banish  law  and  leave  all  plaintiffs  to  trust  to  the  desire  of 
reputation  on  the  opposite  side,  would  only  be  transporting  the  theory  of  the 
Whigs  from  the  House  of  Commons  to  Westminster  Hall.’* 

N'ow,  in  the  first  place,  we  never  maintained  the  propo- 
sition which  Mr.  Bentham  puts  into  our  mouths.  We  said, 
and  say,  that  there  is  a certain  check  to  the  rapacity  and 
cruelty  of  men,  in  their  desire  of  the  good  opinion  of  others. 
We  never  said  that  it  was  sufficient.  Let  Mr.  Mill  show  it 
to  be  insufficient.  It  is  enough  for  us  to  prove  that  there  is 
a set-off  against  the  principle  from  which  Mr.  Mill  deduces 
the  whole  theory  of  government.  The  balance  may  be,  and 
we  believe,  will  be,  against  despotism  and  the  narrower 
forms  of  aristocracy.  But  what  is  this  to  the  correctness  or 
incorrectness  of  Mr.  Mill’s  accounts  ? The  question  is  not, 
whether  the  motives  which  lead  rulers  to  behave  ill  are 
stronger  than  those  which  lead  them  to  behave  well  ; — but, 
whether  we  ought  to  form  a theory  of  government  by  look- 
ing only  at  the  motives  which  lead  rulers  to  behave  ill  and 
never  noticing  those  which  lead  them  to  behave  well. 

Absolute  rulers,  says  Mr.  Bentham,  do  not  care  for  the 
good  opinion  of  their  subjects;  for  no  man  cares  for  the 
good  opinion  of  those  whom  he  has  been  accustomed  to 
wrong.  By  Mr.  Bentham’s  leave,  this  is  a plain  begging  of 
the  question.  The  point  at  issue  is  this — Will  kings  and 
nobles  wrong  the  people  ? The  argument  in  favor  of  kings 
and  nobles  is  this : — they  will  not  wrong  the  people,  because 
they  care  for  the  good  opinion  of  the  people.  But  this  ar- 
gument Mr.  Bentham  meets  thus : — they  will  not  care  for 
the  good  opinion  of  the  people,  because  they  are  accustomed 
to  wrong  the  people. 

Here  Mr.  Mill  differs,  as  usual,  from  Mr.  Bentham, 
*‘The  greatest  princes,”  says  he,  in  his  Essay  on  Educa* 


428 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  avuitings. 


tion,  “ tlie  most  despotical  masters  of  human  destiny,  wlien 
asked  what  they  aim  at  hy  tlieir  wars  and  conquests,  would 
answer,  if  sincere,  as  Frederick  of  Prussia  answered, /jowt* 
faire  de  soi  ; — to  occupy  a large  s]>ace  in  tire  admira- 

tion of  mankind.”  Putting  Mr.  Mill’s  and  Mr.  Bentham’s 
princijdes  together,  Ave  might  make  out  very  easily  that 
“ tlie  greatest  princes,  the  most  despotical  masters  of  human 
destiny,”  would  never  abuse  their  power. 

A man  who  has  been  long  accustomed  to  injure  people 
must  also  have  been  long  accustomed  to  do  without  their 
lovo,  and  to  endure  tlieir  aversion.  Such  a man  may  not 
miss  the  pleasures  of  i>opularity  ; for  men  seldom  miss  a 
pleasure  Avhich  they  have  long  denied  themselves.  An  old 
tyrant  does  without  po]mlarity  just  as  an  old  water-drinker 
does  without  Avine.  - But,  though  it  is  perfectly  true  that 
men  Avho  for  the  good  of  their  health  have  long  abstained 
from  Avine  feel  the  want  of  A^ery  little,  it  Avould  be  absurd 
to  infer  that  men  will  alAvays  abstain  from  Avine  when  their 
health  requires  that  they  should  do  so.  And  it  would  be 
equally  absurd  to  say,  because  men  Avho  haA^e  been  accus- 
tomed to  oppress  care  little  for  popularity,  that  men  Avill 
therefore  necessarily  prefer  the  pleasures  of  oppression  to 
those  of  popularity. 

Then,  again,  a man  may  be  accustomed  to  wrong  people 
in  one  point  and  not  in  another.  He  may  care  for  their 
good  opinion  with  regard  to  one  point  and  not  with  regard 
to  another.  The  Regent  Orleans  laughed  at  charges  of 
impiety,  libertinism,  extravagance,  idleness,  disgraceful  pro- 
motions. But  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  charges  of  poison- 
ing thrcAV  him  into  couAUilsions.  Louis  the  Fifteenth  braved 
the  hatred  and  contempt  of  his  subjects  during  many  years 
of  the  most  odious  and  imbecile  misgoA^ernment.  But,  Avhen 
a report  was  spread  that  he  used  human  blood  for  his  baths, 
he  was  almost  driven  mad  by  it.  Surely  Mr.  Bentham’s 
position  “ that  no  man  cares  for  the  good  opinion  of  those 
whom  he  has  been  accustomed  to  Avrong”  would  be  objec- 
tionable, as  far  too  sweeping  and  indiscriminate,  even  if  it 
did  not  involve,  as  in  the  present  case  Ave  haA^e  shown  that 
it  does,  a direct  begging  of  the  question  at  issue. 

Mr.  Bentham  proceeds : — 

Fourthly,  The  Edinburgh  Reviewers  are  of  opinion,  that  ‘ it  might,  with 
no  small  plausibility,  be  raaiutaiued,  that  In  many  countries,  there  are  two 
classes  which,  in  some  degree,  answer  to  this  description  ; ’ [viz.]  ‘that  the 
poor  compose  the  class  which  goverument  is  established  to  restrain  ; and  tha 


WESTMINSTER  REVlEWEli’s  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  429 


people  of  some  property  the  class  to  wliich  the  ^xjwers  of  government  maj 
without  danger  be  con  tided.’ 

“ They  take  great  pains,  it  is  true,  to  say  this  and  not  to  say  it.  They 
Bhuffle  and  creep  about,  to  secure  a hole  to  escape  at,  if  ‘ what  they  do  not 
assert’  should  be  found  in  any  degree  inconvenient.  A man  might  waste  his 
life  in  trying  to  find  out  whether  the  Misses  of  the  Edinburgh  mean  to  say 
Yes  or  No  in  their  political  coquetry.  But  whichever  way  the  lovely  spin- 
sters may  decide,  it  is  diametrically  op])osed  to  history  and  the  evidence  of 
facts,  that  the  poor  are  the  class  wliom  there  is  any  difficulty  in  restraining. 
It  is  not  the  poor  but  the  rich  that  have  a proi^ensity  to  take  the  property  of 
other  people.  There  is  no  instance  upon  eiirth  of  the  ix)or  having  combined 
to  take  away  the  projverty  of  the  rich  ; and  all  the  instances  habitually 
brought  forward  in  support  if  it  are  gross  misiepresentations,  founded  upon 
the  most  necessary  acts  of  self-defence  on  the  part  of  the  most  numerous 
classes.  Such  a misrepresentation  is  the  common  one  of  the  Agrarian  law  ; 
which  was  nothing  but  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  Roman  people  to  get 
back  some  part  of  what  had  been  taken  from  them  by  undisguised  robbery. 
Such  another  is  the  stock  example  of  the  French  Revolution,  appealed  to  by 
the  Edinburgh  Eevieru  in  the  actual  case.  It  is  utterly  untrue  that  the 
French  Revolution  took  place  because  ‘ the  poor  began  to  compare  their 
cottages  and  salads  with  the  hotels  and  banquets  of  the  rich  ; ’ it  took  place 
because  they  were  robbed  of  their  cottages  and  salads  to  suj^port  the  hotels 
and  banquets  of  their  oppressors.  It  is  utterly  untrue  that  there  was  either 
a scramble  for  property  or  a general  confiscation  ; the  classes  who  took  part 
with  the  foreign  invaders  lost  their  property,  as  they  would  have  done  here, 
and  ought  to  do  everywhere.  All  these  are  the  vulgar  errors  of  the  man  on 
the  lion’s  back, — which  the  lion  will  set  to  rights  when  he  can  tell  his  own 
story.  History  is  nothing  but  the  relation  of  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  from 
the  rich  ; except  precisely  so  far  as  the  numerous  classes  of  the  community 
have  contrived  to  keep  the  virtual  power  in  their  hands,  or  in  other  words, 
to  establish  free  governments.  If  the  poor  man  injures  the  rich,  the  law  is 
instantly  at  his  heels  ; the  injuries  of  the  rich  towards  the  poor  are  always 
inflicted  by  the  law.  And  to  enable  the  rich  to  do  this  to  any  extent  that 
may  be  practicable  or  prudent,  there  is  clearly  one  postulate  required,  which 
is,  that  the  rich  shall  make  the  law.” 

This  passage  is  alone  sufficient  to  prove  that  Mr.  Ben- 
tham  has  not  taken  tlie  trouble  to  read  our  article  from 
beginning  to  end.  We  are  quite  sure  that  he  would  not 
stoop  to  misrepresent  it.  And,  if  he  had  read  it  with 
any  attention,  he  would  have  perceived  tliat  all  this  co- 
quetry, this  hesitation,  this  Yes  and  No,  this  saying  and  not 
saying,  is  simply  an  exercise  of  the  undeniable  right  which 
in  controversy  belongs  to  the  defensive  side — to  the  side 
which  proposes  to  establish  nothing.  The  affirmative  of  the 
issue  and  the  burden  of  the  proof  are  with  Mr.  Mill,  not 
with  us.  We  are  not  bound,  perhaps  we  are  not  able,  to 
show  that  the  form  of  government  which  he  recommends  is 
bad.  It  is  quite  enough  if  we  can  show  that  he  does  not 
prove  it  to  be  good.  In  his  proof,  among  many  other  flaws, 
is  this — He  says,  that  if  men  are  not  inclined  to  plunder  each 
other,  government  is  unnecessary,  and  that,  if  men  are  so 
inclined,  kings  and  aristocracies  will  plunder  the  people. 
Now  this,  we  say  is  a fallacy.  That  some  men  will  plunder 


430  MACAULAY'S  MISCKLLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

their  neighbors  if  tliey  can,  is  a siifhcient  reason  for  the 
existence  of  governments.  But  it  is  not  deinorstrated  that 
kings  and  aristocracies  will  ])lund(jr  the  ))eo])le,  unless  it  be 
true  that  all  men  will  plunder  their  neiglibors  if  they  can. 
Men  are  placed  in  very  different  situations.  Some  have 
all  the  bodily  pleasure  that  they  desire,  and  many  other 
jdeasures  besides,  without  plundering  anybody.  Others  can 
scarcely  obtain  their  daily  bread  without  plundering.  It 
maybe  true,  but  surely  it  is  not  self-evident,  that  the  former 
class  is  under  as  strong  temptations  to  plunder  as  the  latter. 
Mr.  Mill  was  therefore  bound  to  prove  it.  That  he  has  not 
proved  it  is  one  of  thirty  or  forty  fatal  errors  in  his  argu- 
ment. It  is  not  necessary  that  we  should  express  an  opinion 
or  even  have  an  opinion  on  the  subject.  Perhaps  we  are 
in  a state  of  perfect  skepticism  ; but  what  then  ? Are  we 
the  theory-makers  ? When  we  bring  before  the  world  a 
theory  of  government,  it  will  be  time  to  call  upon  us  to 
offer  proof  at  every  step.  At  present  we  stand  on  our  un- 
doubted logical  right.  We  concede  nothing  ; and  we  deny 
nothing.  We  say  to  the  Utilitarian  theorists  : — When  you 
prove  your  doctrine,  we  will  believe  it ; and,  till  you  prove  it, 
we  will  not  believe  it. 

Mr.  Bentham  has  quite  misunderstood  what  we  said 
about  the  French  Revolution.  We  never  alluded  to  that 
event  for  the  purpose  of  proving  tliat  the  poor  were  inclined 
to  rob  the  rich.  Mr.  Mill’s  principles  of  human  nature  fur- 
nished us  with  that  part  of  our  argument  ready-made.  We 
alluded  to  the  French  Revolution  for  the  purpose  of  illustra- 
ting the  effects  which  general  spoliation  produces  on  society, 
not  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that  general  spoliation  Avill 
take  place  under  a democracy.  We  allowed  distinctly  that, 
in  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  French  monarchy,  the 
Revolution,  though  accompanied  by  a great  shock  to  the  insti  • 
tution  of  property,  v/as  a blessing.  Surely  Mr.  Bentham 
will  not  maintain  that  the  injury  produced  by  the  deluge  of 
^signats  and  by  the  maximum  fell  only  on  the  emigrants,— 
or  that  there  were  not  many  emigrants  who  would  have 
staid  and  lived  peaceably  under  any  government  if  their 
persons  and  property  had  been  secure. 

We  never  said  that  the  French  Revolution  took  place 
because  the  poor  began  to  compare  their  cottages  and  salads 
with  the  hotels  and  banquets  of  the  rich.  We  were  not 
Bpeaking  about  the  causes  of  the  Revolution,  or  thinking 
ibout  i hem.  This  we  said,  and  say,  that,  if  a democratic 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWER^S  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  431 


government  had  been  establislicd  in  France,  the  poor,  wiien 
they  began  to  compare  their  cottages  and  salads  with  the 
Hotels  and  banquets  of  the  rich,  would,  oD  the  supposition 
that  Mr.  Mill’s  principles  are  sound,  have  plundered  the  rich, 
and  repeated  without  provocation  all  the  severities  and  con- 
fiscations which,  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  were  com- 
mitted with  j:>ro vocation.  We  say  that  Mr.  Mill’s  favorite 
form  of  government  would,  if  his  own  views  of  human  natuie 
be  just,  make  those  violent  convulsions  and  transfers  of  pro[>- 
erly  which  now  rarely  happen,  except,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
French  Revolution,  when  the  people  are  maddened  by  op- 
pression, events  of  annual  or  biennial  occurrence.  W e gave 
no  opinion  of  our  own.  We  give  none  now.  We  say  that 
this  proposition  may  be  proved  from  Mr.  Mill’s  own  premises, 
by  steps  strictly  analogous  to  those  by  which  he  proves  monar- 
chy and  aristocracy  to  be  bad  forms  of  government.  To  say 
this,  is  not  to  say  that  the  proposition  is  true.  For  we  hold 
both  Mr.  Mill’s  premises  and  his  deduction  to  be  unsound 
throughout. 

Mr.  Bentham  challenges  us  to  prove  from  history  that 
the  people  will  plunder  the  rich.  What  does  history  say  to 
Mr.  Mill’s  doctrine,  that  absolute  kings  will  always  plunder 
their  subjects  so  unmercifully  as  to  leave  nothing  but  a bare 
subsistence  to  any  except  their  OAvn  creatures  ? If  expe- 
rience is  to  be  the  test,  Mr.  Mill’s  theory  is  unsound.  If  Mr. 
Mill’s  reasoning  a priori  be  sound,  the  people  in  a democracy 
will  j)lunder  the  rich.  Let  us  use  one  Aveight  and  one  meas- 
ure. Let  us  not  throw  history  aside  when  we  are  proving 
a theory,  and  take  it  up  again  when  Ave  have  to  refute  an 
objection  founded  on  the  principles  of  that  theory. 

We  have  not  done,  however,  with  Mr.  Bentham’s  charges 
against  us. 

“ Among  other  specimens  of  their  ingenuity,  they  think  they  embarrass 
the  subject  by  asking  why,  on  the  principles  in  question,  women  should  not 
have  votes  as  well  as  men.  And  why  not  ? 

‘ Gentle  shepherd,  tell  me  why. — ’ 

If  the  mode  of  election  was  what  it  ought  to  be,  there  would  be  no  more 
difficulty  in  women  voting  for  a representative  in  Parliament  than  for  a di- 
rector at  the  India  House.  The  world  will  find  out  at  some  time  that  the 
readiest  way  to  secure  justice  on  some  points  is  to  be  just  on  all  : — that  the 
whole  is  easier  to  accomplish  than  the  part  ; and  that,  whenever  the  camel 
is  driven  through  the  eye  of  the  needle,  it  would  be  simple  follj’^  and  debility 
that  would  leave  a hoof  behind.” 

Why,  says  or  sings  Mr.  Bentham,  should  not  women 
vot©  ? It  may  seem  uncivil  in  us  to  turn  a deal  ear  to  his 


432  MACAUJ.Ay’s  MISCELLANKOUS  AVKITINGS. 

Arcadian  warldiiigs.  But  we  suLmit,  witli  great  defei 
ence,  that  it  is  not  our  business  to  tell  him  why.  We 
fully  agree  with  him  that  the  ])rinciple  of  female  suffrage  is 
not  so  palpably  absurd  that  a chain  of  reasoning  ought  to 
be  pronounceil  unsound  merely  because  it  leads  to  female 
suffrage.  We  say  that  every  argument  which  tells  in  fa- 
vor of  the  universal  suffrage  of  the  males  tells  equally  in 
favor  of  female  suffrage.  Mr.  Mill,  liowever,  wishes  to  see 
all  men  vote,  but  says  that  it  is  unnecessary  that  women 
should  vote;  and  for  making  this  distinction  gives  as  a 
reason  an  assertion  which,  in  the  first  jdace,  is  not  true,  and 
which,  in  the  next  place,  would,  if  true,  overset  his  whole 
theory  of  human  nature ; namely,  that  the  interest  of  the 
women  is  identical  with  that  of  the  men.  We  side  with  Mr. 
Bentham,  so  far  at  least  as  this : that,  when  Ave  join  to  drive 
the  camel  through  the  needle,  he  shall  go  through  hoof  and 
all.  We  at  present  desire  to  be  excused  from  driving  the 
camel.  It  is  Mr.  Mill  avIk/  leaA^es  the  hoof  behind.  But  we 
should  think  it  uncourteous  to  reproach  him  in  the  language 
which  Mr.  Bentham,  in  the  exercise  of  his  paternal  authority 
OA^er  the  sect,  thinks  himself  entitled  to  employ. 

“Another  of  their  perverted  ingenuities  is,  that  ‘they  are  rather  inclined 
to  think,’  that  it  would,  on  the  whole,  be  for  the  interest  of  the  majority  to 
plunder  the  rich  ; and  if  so,  the  Utilitarians  will  say  that  the  rich  ought  to 
be  plundered.  On  which  it  is  sufficient  to  reply,  that  for  the  majority  to 
plunder  the  rich  would  amount  to  a declaration  that  nobody  should  be  rich  ; 
which,  as  all  men  wish  to  be  rich,  wmild  involve  a suicide  of  hope.  And  as 
nobody  has  shown  a fragment  of  reason  why  such  a proceeding  should  be  for 
the  general  happiness,  it  does  not  follow  that  the  ‘ Utilitarians  ’ would  recom- 
mend it.  The  Edinburgh  Reviewers  have  a waiting  gentlewoman’s  ideas  of 
‘Utilitarianism.’  It  is  unsupported  by  anything  but  the  pitiable  ‘We  are 
rather  inclined  to  think  ’ — and  is  utterly  contradicted  by  the  whole  course  of 
history  and  human  experience  besides, — that  there  is  either  danger  or  possi- 
bility of  such  a consummation  as  the  ma  jority  agreeing  on  tlie  plunder  of  the 
rich.  There  have  been  instances  in  human  memory,  of  their  agreeing  to 
plunder  rich  oppressors,  rich  traitors,  rich  enemies, — but  the  rich  simpliciter 
never.  It  is  as  true  now  as  in  the  days  of  Harrington,  that  ‘ a people  never 
will,  nor  ever  can,  never  did,  nor  ever  shall,  take  up  arms  for  levelling.’  All 
the  commotions  in  the  world  have  been  for  something  else  ; and  ‘ levelling  * 
Is  brought  forward  as  the  blind  to  conceal  what  the  other  was.'’ 

We  sajq  again  and  again,  that  we  are  on  the  defensive. 
We  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  prove  that  a quack  medi- 
cine is  poison.  Let  the  vendor  prove  it  to  be  sanitive.  We 
do  not  pretend  to  show  that  universal  suffrage  is  an  evil. 
Let  its  advocates  shov/  it  to  be  a good.  Mr.  Mill  tells  us 
that,  if  power  be  given  for  short  terms  to  representatives 
elected  by  all  the  males  of  mature  age,  it  will  then  be  for 
the  interest  c f those  representatives  to  promote  the  greatest 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWER’S  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  433 

happiness  of  the  greatest  mimher.  To  prove  this,  it  is  ne- 
cessary that  he  should  ])rove  three  propositions  : first,  that 
the  interest  of  such  a representative  body  will  be  identical 
with  the  interest  of  the  constituent  body ; secondly,  that 
the  interest  of  the  constituent  body  will  be  identical  with 
that  of  the  community ; thirdly,  that  the  interest  of  one 
generation  of  a community  is  identical  with  that  of  all  suc- 
ceeding generations.  The  two  first  propositions  Mr.  Mill 
attempts  to  prove.  We  therefore  refuse  our  assent  to  his 
itonclusions.  Is  this  unreasonable  ? 

We  never  even  dreamed,  what  Mr.  Bentham  conceives 
ns  to  have  maintained,  that  it  could  be  for  the  greatest  hap^ 
piness  of  manhindXo  plunder  the  rich.  But  we  are  “ rather 
inclined  to  think,”  though  doubtingly  and  with  a disposition 
to  yield  to  conviction,  that  it  may  be  for  the  pecuniary  in- 
terest of  the  majority  of  a single  generation  ifi  a thickly- 
peopled  country  to  plunder  the  rich.  Why  we  are  inclined 
to  think  so  we  will  explain,  whenever  we  send  a theory  of 
government  to  an  EncyclopaBdia.  At  present  we  are  bound 
to  say  only  that  we  think  so,  and  shall  think  so  till  somebody 
shows  us  a reason  for  thinking  otherwise. 

Mr.  Bentham’s  answer  to  us  is  simple  assertion.  He  must 
not  think  that  we  mean  any  discourtesy  by  meeting  it  with 
a simple  denial.  The  fact  is,  that  almost  all  the  govern- 
ments that  had  ever  existedln  the  civilized  world  have  been, 
’in  part  at  least,  monarchical  and  aristocratical.  The  first 
government  constituted  on  principles  approaching  to  those 
which  the  Utilitarians  hold  was,  we  think,  that  of  the  United 
States.  That  the  poor  have  never  combined  to  plunder  the 
rich  in  the  governments  of  the  old  world,  no  more  proves 
that  they  mi^ht  hot  combine  to  plunder  the  rich  under  a 
system  of  universal  suffrage,  than  the  fact  that  the  English 
kings  of  the  House  of  Brunswick  have  not  been  Neros  and 
Domitians  proves  that  sovereigns  may  safely  be  intrusted 
with  absolute  power.  Of  what  the  people  would  do  in  a 
state  of  perfect  sovereignty  we  can  judge  only  by  indications, 
which,  though  rarely  of  much  moment  in  themselves,  and 
though  always  suppressed  with  little  difficulty,  are  yet  of 
great  significance,  and  resemble  those  by  wffiich  our  domes- 
tic animals  sometimes  remind  us  that  they  are  of  kin  with 
the  fiercest  monsters  of  the  forest.  It  would  not  be  wise  to 
reason  from  the  behavior  of  a dog  crouching  under  the  lash, 
w hich  is  the  case  of  the  Italian  people,  or  from  the  behavior 

a dog  pampered  with  the  best  morsels  of  a plentiful 


434 


MACAULAV’S  MISCELLANEOUS  AVKITINGS. 


kitchen,  wliicli  is  tlic  case  of  llu;  ])eo]>le  of  America,  to  the 
behavior  of  a wolf,  which  is  notliiiig  but  a dog  run  wild, 
after  a week’s  fast  among  tlie  snows  of  tlie  Pyrenees.  No 
commotion,  says  Mr.  Bentliam,  Avas  ever  really  produced 
by  the  wish  of  levelling:  the  Avish  has  been  put  forward  as  a 
blind ; but  something  else  has  been  the  real  object.  Grant 
all  this.  But  Avhy  has  levelling  been  put  forward  as  a blind 
in  times  of  commotion  to  conceal  the  real  objects  of  the 
agitators  ? Is  it  with  declarations  which  involve  “ a suicide 
of  hope”  that  men  attempt  to  allure  others?  Was  famine, 
oestilence,  slavery,  ever  held  out  to  attract  the  people  ? If 
leA'elling  has  been  made  a pretence  for  disturbances,  the 
argument  against  Mr.  Bentham’s  doctrine  is  as  strong  as  if  it 
had  been  the  real  object  of  disturbances. 

But  the  great  objection  AA^hich  Mr.  Bentham  makes  to 
our  revicAV,  still  remains  to  be  noticed  : — 

The  pith  of  the  charge  against  the  author  of  the  Essays  is.  that  he  has 
written  ‘an  elaborate  Treatise  on  Government,’  and  deduced  the  whole 
science  from  the  assumption  of  certain  propensities  of  human  nature.’ 
Now,  in  the  name  of  Sir  Richard  Birnie  and  all  saints,  from  what  else 
should  it  be  deduced  ? What  did  ever  anybody  imagine  to  be  the  end,  ob- 
ject, and  design  of  government  as  it  ought  to  he  but  the  same  operation,  on 
an  extended  scale,  which  that  meritorious  chief  magistrate  conducts  on  a 
limited  one  at  Bow-street ; to  wdt,  the  preventing  one  man  from  injuring  an- 
other ? Imagine,  then,  that  the  Whiggery  of  Bow-street  were  to  rise  up 
against  the  proposition  that  their  science  was  to  be  deduced  from  ‘ certain 
propensities  of  human  nature,’  and  tliereon  were  to  ratiocinate  as  follows: 

“ ‘ How  then  are  we  to  arrive  at  just  conclusions  on  a subject  so  important 
to  the  happiness  of  mankind  ? Surely  by  that  method,  Avhich,  in  every  ex- 
perimental science  to  which  it  has  been  applied,  has  signally  increased  the 
power  and  knowledge  of  our  species, — by  that  method  for  which  our  new 
philosophers  would  substitute  quibbles  scarcely  worthy  of  the  barbarous 
respondents  and  opponents  of  the  middle  ages, — by  the  method  of  induction, 
— by  observing  the  present  state  of  the  world, — by  assiduously  studying  the 
history  of  past  ages, — by  sifting  the  evidence  of  facts, — by  carefully  com- 
bining and  contrasting  those  which  are  authentic, — by  generalizing  with 
judgment  and  diffidence, — by  perpetually  bringing  the  theory  which  wo 
nave  constructed  to  the  test  of  new  facts, — by  correcting,  or  altogether 
abandoning  it,  according  as  those  new  facts  prove  it  to  be  partially  or  fun- 
damentally unsound.  Proceeding  thus, — patienth',  diligently,  candidly,  we 
may  hope  to  form  a system  as  far  inferior  in  pretension  to  that  which  we 
have  been  examining,  and  as  far  superior  to  it  in  real  utility,  as  the  prescrip- 
tions of  a great  physician,  varying  with  every  stage  of  every  malady,  and 
with  the  constitution  of  every  patient,  to  the  pill  of  the  advertising  quack, 
which  is  to  cure  all  human  beings,  in  all  climates,  of  all  diseases.’  ” 

“ Fancy  now, — only  fancy, — the  delivery  of  these  wise  words  at  Bow- 
street  ; and  think  how  speedily  the  practical  catchpolls  would  reply,  that  all 
this  might  be  very  fine,  but  as  far  as  they  had  studied  history,  the  naked 
story  was,  after  all,  that  numbers  of  men  had  a propensity  to  thieving,  and 
their  business  was  to  catch  them  ; that  they,  too,  had  been  sifters  of  facts  ; 
and,  to  say  the  truth,  their  simple  opinion  was  that  their  brethren  of  the  red 
waisicoat—though  they  should  be  sorry  to  think  ill  of  any  man — had  some- 
how contracted  a leaning  to  the  other  side,  and  were  more  bent  on  puzzling 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWER’S  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  435 


the  case  for  the  benefit  of  the  defendants,  than  on  doing  the  duty  of  good 
olficers  and  true.  Siicli  would,  beyond  all  doubt,  be  the  sentence  passed  on 
such  trimmers  in  the  microcosm  of  Bow-street.  It  niiglit  not  absolutely  fol- 
low that  they  were  in  a jdot  to  rob  the  goldsmiths’  shops,  or  to  set  fire  to  the 
House  of  Commons  ; but  it  would  be  quite  clear  that  they  had  got  cifeclinr/f 
— that  they  were  in  process  of  siding  witli  the  thieves, — and  that  it  was  not 
to  them  that  any  man  must  look  who  was  anxious  that  pantries  should  bo 
gafe.  ” 

This  is  all  very  witty  ; but  it  does  not  touch  us.  On  the 
present  occasion,  we  cannot  but  flatter  ouseh^es  that  we 
near  a much  greater  resemblance  to  a practical  catchpoll 
than  either  Mr.  Mill  or  Mr.  Centham.  It  Avould,  to  be  sure, 
be  very  absurd  in  a magistrate,  discussing  the  arrangements 
of  a police-office,  to  spout  in  the  style  either  of  our  article 
or  Mr.  Bentham’s  ; but,  in  substance,  he  would  proceed,  if 
he  were  a man  of  sense,  exactly  as  we  recommend.  He 
would,  on  being  appointed  to  provide  for  the  security  of 
property  in  a town,  study  attentively  the  state  of  the  town. 
He  would  learn  at  what  places,  at  what  times,  and  under 
what  circumstances,  theft  and  outrage  were  most  frequent. 
Are  the  streets,  he  would  ask,  most  infested  with  thieves  at 
sunset  or  at  midnight  ? Are  there  any  public  places  of  re- 
sort which  give  peculiar  facilities  to  pickjiockets  ? Are 
there  any  districts  completely  inhabited  by  a lawless  pop- 
ulation ? Which  are  the  flash-houses,  and  which  the  shops 
of  receivers  ? Having  made  himself  master  of  the  facts  he 
would  act  accordingly.  A strong  detachment  of  officers 
might  be  necessary  for  Petticoat  Lane  ; another  for  the  pit 
entrance  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  Grosvenor  Square  and 
Hamilton  Place  would  require  little  or  no  protection.  Ex- 
actly thus  should  we  reason  about  government.  Lombardy 
is  oppressed  by  tyrants  ; and  constitutional  checks,  such  as 
may  produce  security  to  the  people,  are  required.  It  is,  so 
to  speak,  one  of  the  resorts  of  thieves  ; and  there  is  great 
need  of  police-officers.  Denmark  resembles  one  of  those 
respectable  streets  in  which  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
station  a catchpoll,  because  the  inhabitants  would  at  once 
join  to  seize  a thief.  Yet,  even  in  such  a street,  we  should 
wish  to  see  an  officer  apj)ear  now  and  then,  as  his  occasional 
superintendence  would  render  the  security  more  complete. 
And  even  Denmark,  we  think,  would  be  better  off  under  a 
constitutional  form  of  government. 

Mr.  Mill  proceeds  like  a director  of  police,  who  without 
asking  a single  question  about  the  state  of  his  district,  should 
give  his  orders  thus  : — ‘‘My  maxim  is,  that  every  man  will 
take  what  he  can.  Every  man  in  London  would  be  a thief, 


]siACAULAv\s  aiiscL:llaxi:ol*.s  wnrriXGr 


m 


but  for  tlic  lliief-takers.  Tliis  is  an  undeniable  princij)le  oi 
liuinan  nature.  Some  of  my  predecessors  have  wasted  their 
time  in  inquiring  about  particular  i)awnbrokcrs,  and  par- 
ticular alehouses.  Experience  is  altogether  divided.  Of 
people  placed  in  exactly  the  same  situation,  I see  that  one 
steals,  and  that  another  would  sooner  burn  his  hand  off 
Therefore  I trust  to  the  laws  of  human  nature  alone,  and 
pronounce  all  men  thieves  alike.  Let  everybody,  high  and 
low,  be  watched.  Let  Townsend  take  particular  care  that 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  does  not  steal  the  silk  handkerchief 
of  the  lord  in  waiting  at  the  levee.  A person  has  lost  a wat(  h. 
Go  to  Lord  Fitzwilliam  and  search  him  for  it ; he  is  as  great 
a receiver  of  stolen  goods  as  Ikey  Solomons  himself.  Don’t 
tell  me  about  his  rank,  and  character,  and  fortune.  He  is 
a man ; and  a man  does  not  change  his  nature  Avhen  he  is 
called  a lord.*  Either  men  will  steal  or  they  will  not  steal. 
If  they  will  not,  why  do  I sit  heire  ? If  they  will,  his  lord- 
ship  must  be  a thief.  ” The  Whiggery  of  Bow  Street  would 
perhaps  rise  up  against  this  wisdom.  Would  Mr.  Bentham 
think  that  the  Whiggery  of  Bow  Street  was  in  the  wrong? 

We  blamed  Mr.  Mill  for  deducing  his  theory  of  govern- 
ment from  the  principles  of  human  nature.  “ In  the  name 
of  Sir  Richard  Birnie  and  all  saints,  ” cries  Mr.  Bentham, 
“ from  what  else  should  it  be  deduced  ? ” In  spite  of  this 
solemn  adjuration,  we  shall  venture  to  answer  Mr.  Bentham’s 
question  by  another.  How  does  he  arrive  at  those  principles 
of  human  nature  from  which  he  proposes  to  deduce  the 
science  of  government  ? We  think  that  we  may  venture  to 
put  an  answer  into  his  mouth  ; for  in  truth  there  is  but  one 
possible  answer.  He  will  say — By  experience.  ^ But  what 
Is  the  extent  of  this  experience  ? Is  it  an  experience  which 
includes  experience  of  the  conduct  of  men  intrusted  with  the 
powers  of  government ; or  is  it  exclusive  of  that  experience  ? 
If  it  includes  experience  of  the  manner  in  which  men  act 
when  intrusted  with  the  powers  of  government,  then  those 
principles  of  human  nature  from  which  the  science  of  gov- 
ernment is  to  be  deduced  can  only  be  known  after  going 
through  that  inductive  process  by  which  we  propose  to 
arrive  at  the  science  of  government.  Our  knowledge  of 

• If  Government  is  founded  upon  this,  as  a law  of  human  nature,  that  a man, 
if  able,  will  take  from  others  anything  which  they  have  and  he  desires,  it  is 
«iufficieiitly  evident  that  when  a man  is  called  a king,  he  does  not  change  his 
nature  : so  that,  when  he  has  power  to  take  what  he  pleases,  he  will  take  what 
he  pleases.  To  suppose  that  he  will  not,  is  to  affirm  that  government  is  unne- 
cessary, and  that  human  beings  will  abstain  from  injuring  on©  another  of  thelx 
own  accord.— Mill  on  Government, 


WESTAIINSTKli  KEVIEWiEilS  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  437 

human  nature,  instead  of  being  prior  in  order  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  tlie  science  of  government,  will  be  ])osterior  to  it. 
And  it  would  be  correct  to  say,  tliatby  means  of  the  science 
of  government,  and  of  other  kindred  sciences — the  science 
of  education,  for  example,  wiiich  falls  under  exactly  the 
same  principle — we  arrive  at  the  science  of  human  nature. 

If,  on  the  other  liand,  we  arc  to  deduce  the  tlieory  of 
government  from  principles  of  liuman  nature,  in  arriving  at 
which  principles  we  have  not  taken  into  the  account  the 
manner  in  which  men  act  when  invested  with  the  powers  of 
government,  then  those  ])rinciples  must  be  defective.  They 
have  not  been  formed  by  a sufficiently  copious  induction. 
We  are  reasoning,  from  what  a man  does  in  one  situation, 
to  Avhat  he  will  do  in  another.  Sometimes  we  may  be  quite 
justified  in  reasoning  thus.  When  we  liave  no  means  of  ac- 
quiring information  about  the  particular  case  before  us,  we 
are  compelled  to  resort  to  cases  which  bear  some  resemblance 
to  it.  But  the  most  satisfactory  course  is  to  obtain  informa- 
tion about  the  particular  cases ; and,  whenever  this  can  be 
obtained,  it  ought  to  be  obtained.  When  first  the  yellow 
fever  broke  out,  a physician  might  be  justified  in  treating  it 
as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  treat  those  complaints  which, 
on  the  whole,  had  the  most  symptoms  in  common  with  it,. 
But  what  should  we  tliink  of  a physician  who  should  now 
tell  us  tliat  he  deduced  his  treatment  of  yellow  fever  from 
the  general  theory  of  pathology?  Surely  we  should  ask 
liim.  Whether,  in  constructing  his.  theory  of  pathology,  he 
liad  or  had  not  taken  into  the  account  the  facts  wdiich  had 
been  ascertained  respecting  the  yellow  fever?  If  he  had, 
then  it  wmuld  be  more  correct  to  say  that  he  had  arrived 
at  the  principles  of  pathology  partly  by  his  experience  of 
cases  of  yellow  fever  than  that  he  had  deduced  his  treatment 
of  yellow  fever  from  the  principles  of  pathology.  If  he  had 
not,  he  should  not  prescribe  for  us.  If  w^e  had  the  yellow 
fever,  we  should  prefer  a man  wlio  had  never  treated  any 
cases  but  cases  of  yellow  fever  to  a man  who  had  walked 
the  hospitals  of  London  and  Paris  for  years,  but  who  knew 
nothing  of  our  particular  disease. 

Let  Lord  Bacon  speak  for  us : Inductionem  censemus 

earn  esse  demonstrandi  formam,  quie  sensum  tuetur,  et 
naturam  premit,  et  operibus  imminet,  ac  fere  immiscetur. 
Itaque  ordo  quoque  demonstrandi  plane  invertitur.  Adhuc 
cnim  res  ita  geri  consuevit,  ut  a sensu  et  particularibus 
primo  loco  ad  maxime  generalia  ad  voletur,  tanquam  ad  polos 


438 


Macaulay’s  miscellankous  WRiTmos. 


iSxos,  circa  quos  disputationes  vertantur;  ab  illis  csetera, 
per  media,  deriventur;  via,  certe  compendiaria,  sed  pra?- 
cipiti,  et  ad  naturam  impervia,  ad  disj)utationes  proclivi  et 
accommodata.  At,  secundum  nos,  axiomata  continenter  et 
gradatim  excitantur,  ut  non,  nisi  postremo  loco,  ad  maxime 
generalia  veniatur.  ” Can  any  words  more  exactly  describe 
tbe  political  reasonings  of  Mr.  Mill  than  those  in  which  Lord 
Bacon  thus  describes  the  logomachies  of  the  schoolmen? 
Mr.  Mill  springs  at  once  to  a general  principle  of  the  widest 
extent,  and  from  that  general  principle  deduces  syllogistically 
everything  which  is  included  in  it.  We  say  with  Bacon — 
‘‘  non,  nisi  postremo  loco,  ad  maxime  generalia  veniatur.  ” 
In  the  present  inquiry,  the  science  of  human  nature  is  the 
‘‘maxime  generale.  ” To  this  the  Utilitarian  rushes  at 
once,  and  from  this  he  deduces  a hundred  sciences.  But  tlie 
true  philosopher,  the  inductive  reasoner,  travels  up  to  it 
slowly,  through  those  hundred  sciences,  of  which  the  science 
of  government  is  one. 

As  we  have  lying  before  us  that  incomparable  volume, 
the  noblest  and  most  useful  of  all  the  works  of  the  human 
reason,  the  Novum  Organum,  we  will  transcribe  a few 
lines,  in  which  the  Utilitarian  philosophy  is  portrayed  to  the 
life. 

“ Syllogismus  ad  prmcipta  scientiarum  non  adhibetur,  ad  media  axiomata 
frustra  adhibetur,  cum  sit  subtilitati  natarai  longe  impar.  Assensum  itaque 
coiistriiigit,  non  res.  Syllogismus  ex  propositionibus  constat,  propositiones  ex 
verbis,  verba  notionum  tesserae,  sunt.  Itaque  si  notiones  ipsae,  id  quod  basis 
rei  est,  confusae  sint,  et  temere  a rebus  abstractae,  nihil  in  iis  quae  super- 
struuntur  est  firmitudinis.  Itaque  spes  est  una  in  Inductioue  vera.  In 
notionibus  nil  sani  est,  nec  in  Logicis  nec  in  physicis.  Non  substantia,  non 
qualitas,  agere,  pati,  ipsum  esse,  bonae  notiones  sunt  ; multo  minus  grave, 
leve,  deusum,  tenue,  huiniduni,  siccum,  generatio,  corruptio,  attrahere, 
fugare,  elementura,  materia,  forma,  et  id  genus,  sed  omnes  phantasticae  et 
male  terminatae.” 

Substitute  for  the  “ substantia,”  the  “ generatio,”  the 
“corruptio,”  the  “ elementum,”  the  “materia”  of  the  old 
schoolmen,  Mr.  Mill’s  pain,  pleasure,  interest,  power,  objects 
of  desire, — and  the  words  of  Bacon  will  seem  to  suit  the 
current  year  as  well  as  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 

We  have  now  gone  through  the  objections  that  Mr.  Ben- 
tham  makes  to  our  article  i and  we  submit  ourselves  on  all 
the  charges  to  the  judgment  of  the  public. 

The  rest  of  Mr.  Bentham’s  article  consists  of  an  ex- 
position of  the  Utilitarian  principle,  or,  as  he  decrees  that  it 
shall  be  called,  the  “ greatest  happiness  principle.”  He 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWER’S  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  439 

neems  to  think  that  we  have  been  assailing  it.  We  never 
said  a syllable  against  it.  We  spoke  slightingly  of  the 
Utilitarian  sect,  as  we  thought  of  them,  and  think  of  them  ; 
but  it  was  not  for  holding  this  doctrine  that  we  blamed 
them.  In  attacking  them  we  no  more  meant  to  attack  the 
“ greatest  happiness  principle  ” than  when  we  say  that  Ma- 
hometanism is  a false  religion  we  mean  to  deny  the  unity 
of  God,  which  is  tlie  first  article  of  the  Mahometan  creed ; — 
no  more  than  Mr.  Bentham,  when  he  sneers  at  the  Whigs, 
means  to  blame  them  for  denying  the  divine  right  of  kings. 
We  reasoned  throughout  our  article  on  the  supposition  that 
the  end  of  government  was  to  produce  the  greatest  happi- 
ness to  mankind. 

Mr.  Bentham  gives  an  account  of  the  manner  in  which 
he  arrived  at  the  discovery  of  the  “ greatest  happiness  prin- 
ciple.” He  then  proceeds  to  describe  the  effects  which,  as 
he  conceives,  that  discovery  is  producing  in  language  so 
rhetorical  and  ardent  that,  if  it  had  been  written  by  any 
other  person,  a genuine  Utilitarian  would  certainly  have 
thrown  down  the  book  in  disgust. 

“ The  only  rivals  of  any  note  to  the  new  principle  which  were  brought 
forward,  were  those  known  by  the  names  of  the  ‘ moral  sense,’  and  the 
‘ original  contract.’  The  new  principle  superseded  the  first  of  these,  by  pre- 
senting it  with  a guide  for  its  decisions  ; and  the  other,  by  making  it  un- 
necessary to  resort  to  a remote  and  imaginary  contract  for  what  was  clearly 
tlie  business  of  every  man  and  every  hour.  Throughout  the  whole  horizon 
of  morals  and  of  politics,  the  consequences  were  glorious  and  vast.  It  might 
be  said  without  danger  of  exaggeration,  that  they  who  sat  in  darkness  had 
seen  a great  light.  The  mists  in  which  mankind  had  jousted  against  each 
other  were  swept  away,  as  when  the  sun  of  astronomical  science  arose  in  the 
full  development  of  the  principle  of  gravitation.  If  the  object  of  legislation 
was  the  greatest  happiness,  morality  was  the  promotion  of  the  same  end  by 
the  conduct  of  the  individual  ; and  by  analogy,  the  happiness  of  the  world 
was  tlie  morality  of  nations. 

* * n:  * « ^1^0  gublime  obscurities,  which  had  haunted  the  mind 

of  man  from  the  first  formation  of  society,— the  phantoms  whose  steps  had 
been  on  earth,  and  their  heads  among  the  clouds,— marshalled  themselves 
it  the  sound  of  this  new  principle  of  connection  and  of  union,  and  stood  a 
regulated  band,  where  all  was  order,  symmetry  and  force.  What  men  had 
struggled  for  and  bled,  while  they  saw  it  but  as  through  a glass  darkly,  was 
made  the  object  of  substantial  knowledge  and  lively  apprehension.  The 
bones  of  sages  and  of  patriots  stirred  within  their  tombs,  that  what  they 
dimly  saw  and  followed  had  become  the  world’s  common  heritage.  And  the 
great  result  was  wrought  by  no  supernatural  means,  nor  produced  by  any 
iinparallelable  concatenation  of  events.  It  was  foretold  by  no  oracles,  and 
ushered  by  no  portents  ; but  was  brought  about  by  the  quiet  and  reiterated 
exercise  of  God’s  first  gift  of  common  sense.” 

Mr.  Bentham’s  discovery  does  not,  as  we  think  we  shall 
be  able  to  show,  approach  in  importance  to  that  of  gravi- 
tation, to  which  he  compares  it.  At  all  events,  Mr,  Bentham 


440 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


seems  to  us  to  act  much  as  Sir  Isaac  Newton  would  have 
done  if  he  had  gone  about  boasting  tliat  he  was  the  first 
person  who  taught  bricklayers  not  to  jump  off  scaffolds  and 
break  their  legs. 

Does  Mr.  Bentham  profess  to  hold  out  any  new  motive 
which  may  induce  men  to  promote  tlie  hapyjiness  of  the 
species  to  which  tliey  belong  ? Not  at  all.  lie  distinctly 
admits  that,  if  he  is  asked  why  government  should  attem])t 
to  produce  the  greatest  possible  happiness,  he  can  give  no 
answer. 

“ The  real  answer,’’  says  he,  “ appeared  to  be,  that  men  at  large  ought 
not  to  allow  a government  to  afflict  them  with  more  evil  or  less  good  than 
they  can  help.  What  a rjovernment  ought  to  do  is  a mysterious  and  search- 
ing question,  which  those  may  answer  who  know  what  it  means  ; but  what 
other  men  ought  to  do  is  a question  of  no  myster^^  at  all.  The  word  oufjhty 
if  it  means  anything,  must  have  reference  to  some  kind  of  interest  or  motives; 
and  what  interest  a government  has  in  doing  right,  when  it  happens  to  be 
interested  in  doing  wrong,  is  a question  for  the  schoolmen.  The  fact 
appears  to  be,  that  ought  is  not  predicable  of  governments.  Tlie  question  is 
not  why  governments  are  bound  not  to  do  this  or  that,  but  wliy  other  men 
should  let  them  if  they  can  help  it.  The  point  is  not  to  determine  why  the 
lion  should  not  eat  sheep,  but  why  men  should  uot  eat  their  own  mutton 
if  they  can.” 

The  principle  of  Mr.  Bentham,  if  wo  understand  it,  is 
this,  that  mankind  ought  to  act  so  as  to  produce  their 
gi-eatest  happiness.  The  word  oughts  he  tells  us,  has  no  meam 
ing,  unless  it  be  used  with  reference  to  some  interest.  But  the: 
interest  of  a man  is  synonymous  with  his  greatest  happiness : 
— and  therefore  to  say  that  a man  ought  to  do  a thing,  is 
to  say  that  it  is  for  his  greatest  happiness  to  do  it.  And  to 
say  that  mankind  ought  to  act  so  as  to  produce  their  great, 
est  happiness,  is  to  say  that  the  greatest  happiness  is  the* 
greatest  happiness — ard  this  is  all  ! 

Does  Mr.  Bentham’s  principle  tend  to  make  any  mau 
wish  for  anything  for  which  he  would  not  have  wished,  or 
do  anything  which  he  would  not  have  done,  if  the  principle 
had  never  been  heard  of  ? If  not,  it  is  an  utterly  useless 
principle.  Now,  every  man  pursues  his  own  happiness  or 
interest— call  it  which  you  will.  If  his  happiness  coincides 
with  the  happiness  of  the  species,  then,  whether  he  ever 
heard  of  the  ‘‘  greatest  happiness  principle  ” or  not,  he  will, 
to  the  best  of  his  knowledge  and  ability,  attempt  to  prod  .^ce 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  species.  But,  if  what  he  thinks 
his  happiness  be  inconsistent  with  the  greatest  happiness  of 
mankind,  will  this  new  principle  convert  him  to  another 
frame  of  mind  ? Mi%  Bentham  himself  allows,  as  we  have 


^VESTMINSTER  REVIEWEr’s  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  44 1 

seen,  that  lie  can  give  no  reason  why  a man  sliould  promote 
the  greatest  liappiness  ofotliersif  their  greatest  hapjiiness  bo 
inconsistent  wnth  what  he  thinks  his  own.  We  should  very 
much  like  to  know  how  the  Utilitarian  principle  would  run 
when  reduced  to  one  plain  imperative  proposition  ? Will  it 
run  thus — pursue  your  own  happiness  ? This  is  superfluous. 
Every  man  pursues  it,  according  to  his  light,  and  always 
has  pursued  it,  and  always  must  pursue  it.  To  say  that  a 
man  has  done  anything,  is  to  say  that  he  thought  it  for  his 
happiness  to  do  it.  Will  the  principle  run  thus — pursue 
the  greatest  happiness  of  mankind,  whether  it  be  your  own 
greatest  happiness  or  not  ? This  is  absurd  and  impossible  ; 
and  Bentham  himself  allows  it  to  be  so.  But,  if  the  principle 
be  not  stated  in  one  of  these  two  ways,  w^e  cannot  imagine 
how  it  is  to  be  stated  at  all.  Stated  in  one  of  these  ways,  it  is 
an  identical  proposition, — true,  but  utterly  barren  of  conse- 
quences. Stated  in  the  other  way,  it  is  a contradiction  in 
terms.  Mr.  Bentham  has  distinctly  declined  the  absurdity. 
Are  we  then  to  suppose  that  he  adopts  the  truism  ? 

There  are  thus,  it  seems,  two  great  truths  which  the 
Utilitarian  philosophy  is  to  communicate  to  mankind — two 
truths  which  are  to  produce  a revolution  in  morals,  in  laws, 
in  governments,  in  literature,  in  the  whole  system  of  life. 
The  first  of  these  is  speculative ; the  second  is  practical. 
The  speculative  truth  is,  that  the  greatest  happiness  is  the 
greatest  happiness.  The  practical  rule  is  very  simple  ; for 
it  imports  merely  that  men  should  never  omit,  when  they 
wdsh  for  anything,  to  wish  for  it,  or  when  they  do  anything, 
to  do  it ! It  is  a great  comfort  to  us  to  think  that  we  readily 
assented  to  the  former  of  these  great  doctrines  as  soon  as 
it  was  stated  to  us  ; and  that  we  have  long  endeavored,  as 
far  as  human  frailty  would  permit,  to  conform  to  the  latter 
in  our  practice.  W e are,  however,  inclined  to  suspect  that 
the  calamities  of  the  human  race  have  been  owing,  less  to 
their  not  knowing  that  happiness  was  happiness,  than  to  their 
not  knowing  how  to  obtain  it — less  to  their  neglecting  to 
do  what  they  did,  than  to  their  not  being  able  to  do  what 
they  wished,  or  not  wishing  to  do  what  they  ought. 

Thus  frivolous,  thus  useless  is  this  philosophy, — ‘‘  coii- 
troversiarum  ferax,  operum  effoeta,  ad  garriendum  promp- 
ta,  ad  generandum  invalida.”  * The  humble  mechanic  who 
discovers  some  slight  improvement  in  the  construction  of 
safety  lamps  or  steam-vessels  does  more  for  the  happiness 

• Bacon,  Novum  Organum. 


i42  MACAULAy'^S  MISCELi^ANKOUS  WKlllJMaS. 

of  mankind  than  tlie  “magnificent  principle,”  as  Mr.  Ben- 
tham  calls  it,  will  do  in  ten  thousand  years.  The  meclianio 
teaches  us  liow  we  may  in  a small  degree  be  better  off  than 
we  were.  The  Utilitarian  adAUses  us  with  gi'eat  pomp  to 
be  as  well  off  as  we  can. 

The  doctrine  of  moral  sense  may  be  very  unphilosoph- 
ical ; but  we  do  not  think  that  it  can  be  proved  to  be  per- 
nicious. Men  did  not  entertain  certain  desires  and  aver- 
sions because  tliey  believed  in  a moral  sense,  but  they  gave 
the  name  of  moral  sense  to  a feeling  which  they  found 
in  their  minds,  however  it  came  there.  If  they  had  given 
it  no  name  at  all  it  would  still  have  influenced  their  actions ; 
and  it  will  not  be  very  easy  to  demonstrate  that  it  has  in- 
fluenced their  actions  the  more  because  they  have  called  it 
the  moral  sense.  The  theory  of  the  original  contract  is  a 
fiction,  and  a very  absurd  fiction  ; but  in  practice  it  meant, 
what  the  “ greatest  happiness  principle,”  if  ever  it  becomes 
a watchword  of  political  warfare,  will  mean — that  is  to  say, 
whatever  served  the  turn  of  those  who  used  it.  Both  the 
one  expression  and  the  other  sound  very  well  in  debating 
clubs ; but  in  the  real  conflicts  of  life  our  passions  and  in- 
terests bid  them  stand  aside  and  know  their  place.  The 
“ greatest  happiness  principle  ” has  always  been  latent  under 
the  words,  social  contract,  justice,  benevolence,  patriotism, 
liberty  and  so  forth,  just  as  far  as  it  was  for  the  happiness, 
real  or  imagined,  of  those  words  to  promote  the  greatest 
happiness  of  mankind.  And  of  this  we  may  be  sure,  that 
the  words  “ greatest  happiness  ” will  never,  in  smy  man’s 
mouth,  mean  more  than  the  greatest  happiness  of  others 
which  is  consistent  with  what  he  thinks  his  own.  The  pro- 
ject of  mending  a bad  world  by  teaching  people  to  give  new 
names  to  old  things  reminds  us  of  Walter  Shandy’s  scheme 
for  compensating  the  loss  of  his  son’s  nose  by  christening 
him  Trismegistus.  What  society  wants  is  a new  motive — ‘ 
not  a new  cant.  If  Mr.  Bentham  can  find  out  any  argu- 
ment yet  undiscovered  which  may  induce  men  to  pursue  the 
general  happiness,  he  will  indeed  be  a great  benefactor  to  our 
species.  But  those  Avhose  happiness  is  identical  with  the  gen- 
eral ha23piness  are  even  now  promoting  the  general  happi- 
ness to  the  very  best  of  their  power  and  knowledge ; and  Mr. 
Bentham  himself  confesses  that  he  has  no  means  of  persuad-^ 
ing  those  whose  liappiness  is  not  identical  with  the  general 
happiness  to  act  upon  his  principle.  Is  not  this,  then,  darken- 
ing counsel  by  words  without  knowledge  ? If  the  only  fruit 


WKSTMINST1£B  RKVIBW-Kli’s  DJ5FJEKCB  OF  MILL.  443 


[■ 


of  the  “ magnificent  principle  ” is  to  be,  that  the  oppressoi  s 
and  pilferers  of  the  next  generation  are  to  talk  of  seeking 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number,  just  as  the 
same  class  of  men  have  talked  in  our  time  of  seeking  to 
uphold  the  Protestant  constitution — just  as  they  talked 
under  Anne  of  seeking  the  good  of  the  Church,  and  under 
Cromwell  of  seeking  the  Lord — where  is  the  gain?  Is  not 
every  great  question  already  enveloped  in  a sufficient  dark 
cloud  of  unmeaning  words?  Is  it  so  difficult  for  a man  to 
cant  some  one  or  more  of  the  good  old  English  cants  which 
his  father  and  grandfather  canted  before  him,  that  he  must 
learn,  in  the  schools  of  the  Utilitarians,  a new  sleight  of 
tongue,,  to  make  fools  clap  and  wise  men  sneer  ? Let  our 
countrymen  keep  their  eyes  on  the  neophytes  of  this  sect, 
and  see  whether  we  turn  out  to  be  mistaken  in  the  predic- 
tion which  we  now  hazard.  It  will  before  long  be  found, 
we  prophesy,  that,  as  the  corruption  of  a dunce  is  the  gen- 
eration of  an  Utilitarian,  so  is  the  corruption  of  an  Utilita- 
rian the  generation  of  a jobber. 

The  most  elevated  station  that  “the  greatest  happi- 
ness principle”  is  ever  likely  to  attain  is  this,  that  it  may 
be  a fashionable  phrase  among  newspaper  writers  and  mem- 
bers of  parliament — that  it  may  succeed  to  the  dignity  which 
has  been  enjoyed  by  the  “original  contract,”  by  the  “con- 
stitution of  1688,”  and  other  expressions  of  the  same  kind. 
We  do  not  apprehend  that  it  is  a less  flexible  cant  than  those 
which  have  preceded  it.,  or  that  it  will  less  easily  furnish  a 
pretext  for  any  design  for  which  a pretext  may  be  required. 
The  “original  contract”  meant  in  the  Convention  Parlia- 
ment the  co-ordinate  authority  of  the  Three  Estates.  If 
there  were  to  be  a radical  insurrection  to-morrow,  the  “ orig- 
inal contract”  Avould  stand  just  as  well  for  annual  parlia- 
ments and  universal  suffrage.  The  “ Glorious  Constitution,” 
again,  has  meant  everything  in  turn  : the  Habeas  Corpus 
Act,  the  Test  Act,  the  Repeal  of  the  Test  Act.  There  has 
not  been  for  many  years  a single  important  measure  which 
has  not  been  unconstitutional  with  its  opponents,  and  which 
its  supporters  have  not  maintained  to  be  agreeable  to  the 
true  spirit  of  the  constitution.  Is  it  easier  to  ascertain  what 
is  for  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  human  race  tlian  what 
is  the  constitution  of  England  ? If  not,  the  “ greatest  hap- 
piness principle  ” will  be  what  the  “ principles  of  the  con- 
stitution ” are,  a thing  to  be  appealed  to  by  everybody,  and 
understood  by  everybody  in  the  sense  which  suits  him  best- 


444  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

It  will  mean  cheap  bread,  dear  bread,  free  trade,  protecting 
duties,  annual  parliaments,  septennial  parliaments,  universal 
suffrage.  Old  Sarum,  trial  by  jury,  martial  law — everything, 
in  short,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  of  which  any  person, 
from  rapacity  or  from  benevolence,  chooses  to  undertake 
the  defence.  It  will  mean  six-and-eightpence  with  the  at- 
torney, tithes  at  the  rectory,  and  game-laws  at  the  nianoi- 
house.  The  Statute  of  Uses,  in  appearance  the  most  sweej) 
ing  legislative  reform  in  our  history,  was  said  to  have  pro- 
duced no  other  effect  than  that  of  adding  three  words  to  a 
conveyance.  The  universal  admission  of  Mr.  Bentham’s 
great  indnciple  would,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  produce  no  other 
effect  than  that  those  orators  who,  while  Avaiting  for  a mean- 
ing, gain  time  (like  bankers  paying  in  sixpences  during  a 
run)  by  uttering  words  that  mean  nothing  would  substitute 
‘‘  the  greatest  happiness,”  or  rather,  as  the  longer  phrase, 
“ the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number,”  for  “ under 
existing  circumstances,” — “ now  that  I am  on  my  legs,” — 
and  “ Mr.  Speaker,  I,  for  one,  am  free  to  say.”  In  fact, 
principles  of  this  sort  resemble  those  forms  which  are  sold 
by  law-stationers,  with  blanks  for  the  names  of  parties,  and 
for  the  special  circumstances  of  every  case — mere  cus- 
tomary headings  and  conclusions,  Avhich  are  equally  at 
the  command  of  the  most  honest  and  of  the  most  un- 
righteous claimant.  It  is  on  the  filling  up  that  everything 
depends. 

The  “greatest  happiness  princi]3le”  of  Mr.  Bentham  is 
included  in  the  Christian  morality  ; and,  to  our  thinking,  it 
is  there  exhibited  in  an  infinitely  more  sound  and  philosoph- 
ical form  than  in  the  Utilitarian  speculations.  For  in  the 
Ncav  Testament  it  is  neither  an  identical  proposition,  nor  a 
contradiction  in  terms;  and,  as  laid  down  by  Mr.  Bentham, 
it  must  be  either  the  one  or  the  other.  “ Do  as  you  would 
be  done  by : Love  your  neighbor  as  yourself : ” these  are 
the  precepts  of  Jesus  Christ.  Understood  in  an  enlarged 
sense,  these  precepts  are,  in  fact,  a direction  to  every  man 
to  promote  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number. 
But  this  direction  would  be  utterly  unmeaning,  as  it  actu- 
ally is  in  Mr.  Bentham’s  philosophy,  unless  it  were  accom- 
panied by  a sanction.  In  the  Christian  scheme,  accordingly, 
it  is  accompanied  by  a sanction  of  immense  force.  To  a 
man  whose  greatest  happiness  in  this  world  is  inconsistent 
with  the  greatest  hapi^iness  of  the  greatest  number  is  held 
out  the  prospect  of  an  infinite  liappiness  hereafter,  from 


WESTMINSTER  REVIEWER’S  DEFENCE  OF  MILL.  t45 

wnich  he  excludes  himself  by  wronging  his  fellow-creatures 
here. 

This  is  practical  philosophy,  as  practical  as  that  on  which 
penal  .9gislation  is  founded.  A man  is  told  to  do  something 
which  otherwise  he  would  not  do,  and  is  furnished  with  a 
new  motive  for  doing  it.  Mr.  Bentham  has  no  new  motive 
to  furnish  his  disciples  with.  He  has  talents  sufficient  to 
effect  anything  that  can  be  effected.  But  to  induce  men 
to  act  Avithout  an  inducement  is  too  much,  even  for  liim. 
He  should  reflect  that  the  whole  vast  world  of  morals  can- 
not be  moved  unless  the  mover  can  obtain  some  stand  for 
his  engines  beyond  it.  He  acts  as  Archimedes  Avould  have 
done,  if  he  had  attempted  to  move  the  earth  by  a lever 
fixed  on  the  earth.  The  action  and  reaction  neutralize  each 
other.  The  artist  labors,  and  the  Avorld  remains  at  rest. 
Mr.  Bentham  can  only  tell  us  to  do  something  which  we 
have  always  been  doing,  and  should  still  have  continued  to 
do,  if  we  had  never,  heard  of  the  “ gi^eatest  haj^piness  prin- 
ciple ” — or  else  to  do  something  which  we  have  no  conceiv- 
able motive  for  doing,  and  therefore  shall  not  do.  Mr. 
Bentham’s  principle  is  at  best  no  more  than  the  golden  rule 
of  the  Gospel  without  its  sanction.  Whatever  evils,  there- 
fore, have  existed  in  societies  in  which  the  authority  of  the 
Gospel  is  recognized  may,  a fortiori^  as  it  appears  to  us, 
exist  in  societies  in  which  the  Utilitarian  principle  is  recog- 
nized. We  do  not  aj:)prehend  that  it  is  more  difficult  for  a 
tyrant  or  a persecutor  to  persuade  himself  and  others  that 
in  putting  to  death  those  who  oppose  his  poAver  or  differ 
from  his  opinions  he  is  pursuing  “ the  greatest  happiness,” 
than  that  he  is  doing  as  he  Avould  be  done  by.  But  religion 
gives  him  a motive  for  doing  as  he  Avould  be  done  by  : and 
Mr.  Bentham  furnishes  him  no  motive  to  induce  him  to 

Komote  the  general  happiness.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
r.  Bentham’s  principle  mean  only  that  every  man  should 
pursue  Ins  OAvn  greatest  happiness,  he  merely  asseits  what 
everybody  knoAvs,  and  recommends  what  everybody  does. 

It  is  not  upon  this  ‘‘  greatest  happiness  principle  ” that 
the  fame  of  Mr.  Bentham  will  rest.  He  has  not  taught  peo- 
ple to  pursue  their  own  happiness ; for  tliat  they  always 
did.  He  has  not  taught  them  to  promote  the  happiness  of 
others  at  the  expense  of  their  own  ; for  that  they  will  not 
and  cannot  do.  But  he  has  taught  them  liow^  in  some  most 
important  points,  to  promote  their  own  happiness ; and,  if 
his  school  had  emulated  him  as  successfully  in  this  respect 


446  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

as  in  t]ic  trick  of  passing  off  truisms  for  discoveries,  the 
name  of  Benthamite  would  have  been  no  word  for  the  scof- 
fer. But  few  of  those  who  consider  themselves  as  in  a more 
especial  manner  his  followers  have  anything  in  common 
with  him  but  his  faults.  The  whole  science  of  Jurispru- 
dence is  his.  He  has  done  much  for  political  economy;  but 
we  are  not  aware  that  in  either  department  any  improve- 
ment has  been  made  by  members  of  his  sect.  He  discov- 
ered truths  ; all  that  they  have  done  has  been  to  make  those 
truths  unpopular.  He  investigated  the  philosophy  of  law  ; 
ne  could  teach  them  only  to  snarl  at  lawyers. 

We  entertain  no  apprehensions  of  danger  to  the  institu 
tions  of  this  country  from  tlie  Utilitarians.  Our  fears  are 
of  a different  kind.  We  dread  tlie  odium  and  discredit  of 
their  alliance.  We  wish  to  see  a broad  and  clear  line  drawn 
between  the  judicious  friends  of  practical  reform  and  a sect 
which,  having  derived  all  its  influence  from  the  countenance 
which  they  have  imprudently  bestowed  upon  it,  hates  them 
with  the  deadly  hatred  of  ingratitude.  There  is  not,  and 
we  firmly  believe  that  there  never  was,  in  this  country  a 
party  so  unpopular.  They  have  already  made  the  science 
of  political  economy — a science  of  vast  importance  to  the 
welfare  of  nations — an  object  of  disgust  to  the  majority  of 
the  community.  The  question  of  parliamentary  reform 
will  share  the  same  fate  if  once  an  association  be  formed  in 
the  public  mind  between  Reform  and  Utilitarianism. 

We  bear  no  enmity  to  any  member  of  the  sect ; and  for 
Mr.  Bentham  we  entertain  very  high  admiration.  We  know 
that  among  his  followers  there  are  some  well-intentioned  men, 
and  some  men  of  talents : but  we  cannot  say  that  we  think 
the  logic  on  which  they  pride  themselves  likely  to  improve 
their  heads,  or  the  scheme  of  morality  which  they  have 
adopted  likely  to  improve  tlieir  hearts.  Their  theory  of 
morals,  however,  well  deserves  an  article  to  itself  ; and  per- 
haps, on  some  future  occasion,  we  may  discuss  it  more  fully 
than  time  and  space  at  present  allow. 

The  preceding  artiojc  was  written,  and  was  actually  in 
types,  when  a letter  from  Mr.  Bentham  appeared  in  the 
newspapers,  importing  that,  ‘‘though  he  had  furnishea 
the  Westminster  Review  with  some  memoranda  respect- 
ing ‘the  greatest  happiness  principle,’  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  remarks  on  our  former  article.”  We  are 
truly  happy  to  find  that  this  illustrious  man  had  so  small  a 


tTTILITARIAK  THEOIir  OF  GOTFRNMENT. 


447 


share  in  a performance  which,  for  his  sake,  we  have  treated 
with  far  greater  lenity  than  it  deserved.  Tlie  mistake,  liow- 
ever,  does  not  in  the  least  affect  any  part  of  our  arguments  ; 
and  we  have  therefore  thought  it  unnecessary  to  cancel  or 
cast  anew  any  of  the  foregoing  ]>ages.  Indeed,  we  are  not 
sorry  that  the  world  should  see  how-  respectfully  we  were 
disposed  to  treat  a great  man,  even  when  we  considered  him 
as  the  author  of  a very  weak  and  very  unfair  attack  on  our- 
aolves.  We  wdsh,  however,  to  intimate  to  the  actual  writer 
of  that  attack  that  our  civilities  were  intended  for  the  author 
of  the  “Preuves  Judiciaires,”  and  the  “Defence  of  Usuiy^’ 
— and  not  for  him.  We  cannot  conclude,  indeed,  without 
expressing  a wish — though  we  fear  it  has  but  little  chance  of 
reaching  Mr.  Bcntham — that  he  Avould  endeavor  to  find 
better  editors  for  his  compositions.  If  M.  Dumont  had  not 
been  a redacteur  of  a different  description  from  some  of  his 
successors,  Mr.  Bentham  would  never  have  attained  the  dis- 
tinction of  even  giving  his  name  to  a sect. 


UTILITARIAN  THEORY  OF  GOVERNMENT.* 

{Edinburgh  Revieio,  October ^ 1829.) 

We  have  long  been  of  opinion  that  the  Utilitarians  have 
owed  all  their  influence  to  a mere  delusion — that,  while  pro- 
fessing to  have  submitted  their  minds  to  an  intellectual  dis- 
cipline of  peculiar  severity,  to  have  discarded  all  sentimen- 
tality, and  to  have  acquired  consummate  skill  in  the  art  of 
reasoning,  they  are  decidedly  inferior  to  the  mass  of  educated 
men  in  the  very  qualities  in  which  they  conceive  themselves 
to  excel.  They  have  undoubtedly  freed  themselves  from 
the  dominion  of  some  absurd  notions.  But  their  struggle 
for  intellectual  emancipation  has  ended,  as  injudicious  and 
violent  struggles  for  political  emancipation  too  often  end,  in 
a mere  change  of  tyrants.  Indeed,  we  are  not  sure  that  we 
do  not  prefer  the  venerable  nonsense  which  holds  prescrip- 
tive sway  over  tlie  ultra-Tory  to  the  upstart  dynasty  of  pre- 
judices and  sophisms  by  w^hich  the  revolutionists  of  the 
moral  world  have  suffered  themselves  to  be  enslaved. 

* Westminster  Review ^ {XXIT.  Art.  16.)  on  the  Strictures  of  the  Edinburgh  Re-' 
view  (XC  VI  / /.  Art.  1)  on  the  Utilitarian  Theory  of  Qovemmentt  ihe  Greatest 
Happiness  Principle,** 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Tlie  Utilitarians  liave  sometimes  been  abused  as  intoler- 
ant, arrogant,  irreligious, — as  enemies  of  literature,  of  the 
fine  arts,  and  of  the  domestic  charities.  They  have  l)een  re- 
viled for  some  things  of  which  they  were  guilty,  and  for 
some  of  which  they  were  innocent.  But  scarcely  anybody 
seems  to  have  perceived  that  almost  all  their  peculiar  faults 
arise  from  the  utter  want  both  of  comprehensiveness  and  of 
precision  in  their  mode  of  reasoning.  We  have,  for  some 
time  past,  been  convinced  that  this  was  really  the  case ; and 
that,  whenever  their  philosophy  should  be  boldly  and  un- 
sparingly scrutinized,  the  world  would  see  that  it  had  been 
under  a mistake  respecting  them. 

We  have  made  the  experiment ; and  it  has  succeeded  far 
beyond  our  most  sanguine  expectations.  A chosen  cham- 
pion of  the  School  has  come  forth  against  us.  A specimen 
of  his  logical  abilities  now  lies  before  us ; and  v/e  pledge 
ourselves  to  show  that  no  prebendary  at  an  anti-Catholic 
meeting,  no  true-blue  baronet  after  the  third  bottle  at  a Pitt 
Club,  ever  displayed  such  utter  incapacity  of  comprehend- 
ing or  answering  an  argument  as  appears  in  the  speculations 
of  this  Utilitarian  apostle  ; that  he  does  not  understand  our 
meaning,  or  Mr.  Mill’s  meaning,  or  Mr.  Bentham’s  meaning, 
or  his  own  meaning;  and  that  the  various  parts  of  his  sys- 
tem— if  the  name  of  system  can  be  so  misapplied — directly 
contradict  each  other. 

Having  shown  this,  we  intend  to  leave  him  in  undisputed 
possession  of  whatever  advantage  he  may  derive  from  the 
last  word.  We  propose  only  to  convince  the  public  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  far-famed  logic  of  the  Utilitarians  of 
which  any  plain  man  has  reason  to  be  afraid  ; that  this  logic 
will  impose  on  no  man  who  dares  to  look  it  in  the  face. 

The  V^estminster  Reviewer  begins  by  charging  us  with 
having  misrepresented  an  important  part  of  Mr.  Mill’s  argu- 
ment. 

The  first  extract  given  by  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers  from  the  essay  was 
an  insulated  passage,  purposely  despoiled  of  what  had  preceded  and  what 
followed.  The  author  had  been  observing,  that  ‘ some  profound  and  benev- 
olent investigators  of  human  affairs  had  adopted  the  conclusion  that,  of  all 
the  possible  forms  of  government,  absolute  monarchy  is  tlie  best.*  This  is 
what  the  reviewers  have  omitted  at  the  beginning.  He  then  adds,  as  in  the 
extract,  that  ‘ Exi^erience,  if  we  look  only  at  the  outside  of  the  facts,  appears 
to  be  divided  on  this  subject;’  there  are  Caligulas  in  one  place,  and  kings 
of  Denmark  in  another.  ‘ As  the  surface  of  history  affords,  therefore,  no 
certain  principle  of  decision,  ice  must  go  beyond  the  smface,^xid.  penetrate 
to  the  springs  within.’  This  is  what  tlie  reviewers  have  omitted  at  the  end.” 

It  perfectly  true  that  our  quotation  from  Mr.  Mill’a 


UTILITARIAN  TllKOKi  Ob'  uO  S KU.N  :^KNT.  449 

essay  was,  like  most  other  quotations,  preceded  and  followed 
by  something  which  we  did  not  quote.  But,  if  the  West- 
minster Reviewer  means  to  say  that  either  what  preceded  or 
what  followed  would,  if  quoted,  have  shown  that  we  put  a 
ivrong  interpretation  on  the  passage  which  was  extracted,  he 
does  not  understand  Mr.  Mill  rightly. 

Mr.  Mill  undoubtedly  says  that,  “ as  the  surface  of  history 
affords  no  certain  principle  of  decision,  we  must  go  beyond 
the  surface,  and  penetrate  to  the  springs  within.”  But 
tliese  expressions  will  admit  of  several  inteiqwetations.  In 
what  sense,  then,  does  Mr.  Mill  use  them  ? If  he  means  that 
we  ought  to  inspect  the  facts  with  close  attention,  he  means 
what  is  rational.  But,  if  he  means  that  we  ought  to  leave 
the  facts,  with  all  their  inconsistencies,  unexplained — to  lay 
down  a general  principle  of  the  widest  extent,  and  to  deduce 
doctrines  from  that  principle  by  syllogistic  argument,  with- 
out pausing  to  consider  whether  those  doctrines  be  or  be 
not  consistent  with  the  facts, — then  he  means  what  is  irra- 
tional ; and  this  is  clearly  what  he  does  mean : for  he  imme- 
diately begins,  without  offering  the  least  explanation  of  the 
contradictory  appearances  which  he  has  himself  described, 
to  go  beyond  the  surface  in  the  following  manner : — “ That 
one  human  being  will  desire  to  render  the  person  and  prop- 
erty of  another  subservient  to  his  pleasures,  notwithstand- 
ing the  pain  or  loss  of  pleasure  which  it  may  occasion  to 
that  other  individual,  is  the  foundation  of  government.  The 
desire  of  the  object  implies  the  desire  of  the  power  neces- 
sary to  accomplish  the  object.”  And  thus  he  proceeds  to 
deduce  consequences  directly  inconsistent  with  what  he  has 
himself  stated  respecting  the  situation  of  the  Danish  people. 

If  we  assume  that  the  object  of  government  is  the 
preservation  of  the  person  and  property  of  men,  then  we 
must  hold  that,  wherever  that  object  is  attained,  there  the 
principle  of  good  government  exists.  If  that  object  be 
attained  both  in  Denmark  and  in  the  United  States  of 
America,  then  that  which  makes  government  good  must 
exist,  under  whatever  disguise  of  title  or  name,  both  in 
Denmark  and  in  the  United  States.  If  men  lived  in  fear 
for  their  lives  and  their  possessions  under  Nero  and  under 
the  National  Convention,  it  follows  that  the  causes  irom 
which  misgovernment  proceeds  existed  both  in  the  des- 
potism of  Rome  and  in  the  democracy  of  France.  What, 
then,  is  that  which,  being  found  in  Denmark  and  in  the 
United  States,  and  not  being  found  in  the  Roman  Empire 
VoL.  I.— 29.  - 


450  MACAL lav's  illSCKLLANEOUS  WUITINGM. 

or  under  tlie  administration  of  Robespierre,  renders  govern- 
ments, widely  differing  in  their  external  form,  practically 
good  ? Be  it  wdiat  it  may,  it  certainly  is  not  that  which 
Mr.  Mill  ]>roves  a priori  that  it  must  be, — a democratic 
representative  assembly.  For  the  Danes  have  no  such 
assembly. 

The  latent  principle  of  good  government  ought  to  be 
tracked,  as  it  appears  to  us,  in  the  same  manner  in  which 
Lord  Bacon  proposed  to  track  the  principle  of  Heat.  Make 
as  large  a list  as  possible,  said  that  great  man,  of  those 
bodies  in  which,  however  widely  they  differ  from  each  other 
in  appearance,  we  perceive  heat ; and  as  large  a list  as  pos- 
sible of  those  wdiich,  while  they  bear  a general  resemblance 
to  hot  bodies,  are  nevertheless  not  hot.  Observe  the  dif- 
ferent degrees  of  heat  in  different  hot  bodies ; and  then,  if 
there  be  something  which  is  found  in  all  hot  bodies,  and  of 
which  the  increase  or  diminution  is  always  accompanied  by 
an  increase  or  diminution  of  heat,  we  may  hope  that  we 
have  really  discovered  the  object  of  our  search.  In  the 
same  manner  we  ought  to  discover  the  constitution  of  all 
those  communities  in  which,  under  whatever  form,  the  bless- 
ings of  good  government  are  enjoyed ; and  to  discover,  if 
possible,  in  what  they  resemble  each  other,  and  in  what  they 
all  differ  from  those  societies  in  which  the  object  of  govern- 
ment is  not  attained.  By  proceeding  thus  we  shall  arrive, 
not  indeed  at  a perfect  theory  of  government,  but  at  a 
theory  which  will  be  of  great  practical  use,  and  which  the 
experience  of  every  successive  generation  will  probably 
bring  nearer  and  nearer  to  perfection. 

The  inconsistencies  into  which  Mr.  Mill  has  been  be- 
trayed by  taking  a different  course  ought  to  serve  as  a warn- 
ing to  all  speculators.  Because  Denmark  is  well  governed 
by  a monarch  who,  in  appearance  at  least,  is  absolute,  Mr. 
Mill  thinks  that  the  only  mode  of  arriving  at  the  true  prin- 
c iples  of  government  is  to  deduce  them  a priori  from  the 
laws  of  human  nature.  And  what  conclusion  does  he  bung 
uut  by  this  deduction  ? We  will  give  it  in  his  own  words : — 
“ In  the  grand  discovery  of  modern  times,  the  system  of 
representation,  the  solution  of  all  difficulties,  both  specu- 
lative and  practical,  will  perhaps  be  found.  If  it  cannot, 
we  seem  to  be  forced  upon  the  extraordinary  concinsion 
that  good  government  is  impossible.”  That  the  Danes  are 
well  governed  without  a representation  is  a reason  for 
deducing  the  theory  of  government  from  a general  prin- 


UTILITARIAN  THEORY  OP  GOVERNMENT, 


451 


ciple  from  which  it  necessarily  follows  that  good  govern- 
ment is  impossible  without  a representation!  We  have 
done  our  best  to  put  this  question  plainly;  and  we  think 
that,  if  the  Westminster  Reviewer  will  read  over  what  we 
have  written  twice  or  thrice  with  patience  and  attention, 
some  glimpse  of  our  meaning  will  break  in  even  on  his 
mind. 

Some  objections  follow,  so  frivolous  and  unfair,  that  we 
are  almost  ashamed  to  notice  them. 

“ When  it  was  said  that  there  was  in  Denmark  a balanced  contest 
between  the  king  and  the  nobility,  what  was  said  was,  that  there  was  a 
balanced  contest,  but  it  did  not  last.  It  was  balanced  till  something  put  an 
end  to  the  balance  ; and  so  is  everything  else.  That  such  a balance  will 
not  last  is  precisely  what  Mr.  Mill  had  demonstrated.” 

Mr.  Mill,  we  positively  affirm,  pretends  to  demonstrate, 
not  merely  that  a balanced  contest  between  the  king  and 
tlie  aristocracy  will  not  last,  but  that  the  chances  are  as 
infinity  to  one  against  the  existence  of  such  a balanced  con- 
test. This  is  a mere  question  of  fact.  We  quote  the  words 
of  the  essay,  and  defy  the  Westminster  Reviewer  to  impeach 
our  accuracy : — 

“ It  seems  impossible  that  such  equality  should  ever  exist.  How  is  it 
to  be  established  ? Or  by  what  criterion  is  it  to  be  ascertained  ? If  there 
is  no  such  criterion,  it  must,  in  all  cases,  be  the  result  of  chance.  If  so,  the 
chances  against  it  are  as  infinity  to  one.” 

The  Reviewer  has  confounded  the  division  of  power 
with  the  balance  or  equal  division  of  power.  Mr.  Mill  says 
that  the  division  of  power  can  never  exist  long,  because  it 
IS  next  to  impossible  that  the  equal  division  of  power  should 
ever  exist  at  all. 

“ When  I\rr.  Mill  asserted  that  it  cannot  be  for  the  interest  of  eithe) 
the  monarchy  or  the  aristocracy  to  combine  with  the  democracy,  it  is  plaii 
he  did  not  assert  that  if  the  monarchy  and  aristocracy  were  in  doubtful  con 
test  with  each  other,  they  would  not,  either  of  them,  accept  of  the  assistanc# 
of  the  democracy.  He  spoke  of  their  taking  the  side  of  the  democracy  ; not 
of  thdr  allowing  the  democracy  to  take  side  ’with  themselves.*^ 

If  Mr.  Mill  meant  anything  he  must  have  meant  this — 
that  the  monarchy  and  the  aristocracy  will  never  forget  theii 
enmity  to  the  democracy  in  their  enmity  to  each  other, 

“ The  monarchy  and  aristocracy,**  says  he,  “ have  all  possible  motives 
for  endeavoring  fo  obtain  unlimited  power  over  the  persons  and  property  of 
the  community.  The  consequence  is  inevitable.  They  have  all  possible 
motives  for  combining  to  obtain  that  power,  and  unless  the  people  have 
power  enough  to  be  a match  for  both  they  have  no  protection.  The  balance, 
therefore,  is  a thing  the  existence  of  which  upon  the  best  possible  evidence 
IB  to  be  regarded  as  impossible.’* 


452 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


If  Mr.  Mill  meant  only  what  the  Westminster  Reviewer 
conceives  him  to  liave  meant,  liis  argument  would  leave  the 
popular  theory  of  the  balance  quite  untouched.  For  it  is 
the  very  theory  of  the  balance  that  the  help  of  the  people 
will  be  solicited  by  the  nobles  when  hard  pressed  by  the 
king,  and  by  the  king  when  hard  pressed  by  the  nobles ; 
and  that,  as  the  price  of  giving  alternate  support  to  the 
crown  and  the  aristocracy,  they  will  obtain  something  for 
themselves,  as  the  Reviewer  admits  tliat  they  have  done  in 
Denmark.  If  Mr.  Mill  admits  this,  he  admits  the  only 
theory  of  the  balance  of  which  we  ever  heard — that  very 
theory  which  he  has  declared  to  be  wild  and  chimerical.  If 
he  denies  it,  ho  is  at  issue  with  the  Westminster  Reviewer 
as  to  the  phenomena  of  the  Danish  government. 

We  now  come  to  a more  important  passage.  Our 
o])ponent  has  discovered,  as  he  conceives,  a radical  error 
wdiich  runs  through  our  whole  argument,  and  vitiates  every 
part  of  it.  We  suspect  that  we  shall  spoil  his  triumph. 

” Mr.  Mill  never  asserted  ‘ that  under  no  despotic  government  does  any 
human  being y except  the  tools  of  the  sovereigUy  possess  more  than  the  neces- 
saries of  lifCy  and  that  the  most  intense  degree  of  terror  is  kept  up  by  con- 
stant crueUy.*  He  said  that  absolute  power  leads  to  such  results,  ‘by  in- 
fallible sequence,  where  power  over  a community  is  attained,  and  nothing 
checks.*  The  critic  on  the  Mount  never  made  a more  palpable  misquotation. 

“ The  spirit  of  this  misquotation  runs  through  every  part  of  the  reply  of 
the  Edinburgh  Review  that  relates  to  the  Essay  on  Government ; and  is  re- 
peated in  as  many  shapes  as  the  Roman  pork.  The  whole  description  of  * Mr. 
Mill’s  argument  against  despotism,' — including  the  illustration  from  right- 
angled  triangles  and  the  square  of  the  hypothenuse, — is  founded  on  this  in- 
vention of  saying  what  an  author  has  not  said,  and  leaving  unsaid  what  no 
has.” 

We  thought,  and  still  think,  for  reasons  which  our  read- 
ers will  soon  understand,  that  we  represented  Mr.  Mill’s 
principle  quite  fairly,  and  according  to  the  rule  of  law  and 
common  sense,  ut  res  magis  valeat  quam  per  eat.  Let  us, 
however,  give  him  all  the  advantage  of  the  explanation  ten- 
dered by  his  advocate,  and  see  what  he  will  gain  by  it. 

The  Utilitarian  doctrine  then  is,  not  that  despots  and 
aristocracies  will  always  plunder  and  oppress  the  people  to 
the  last  point,  b#t  that  they  will  do  so  if  nothing  checks 
them. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  quite  clear  that  the  doctrine  thus 
stated  is  of  no  use  at  all,  unless  the  force  of  the  cheeks  be 
estimated.  The  first  law  of  motion  is,  that  a ball  once  pro- 
jected will  fly  on  to  all  eternity  with  undiminished  velocity, 
unless  something  checks.  The  fact  is,  that  a ball  stops  in  a 


ITTTLITAEIAN  theory  of  government. 


453 


few  seconds  after  proceeding  a few  yards  with  very  variable 
motion.  Every  man  would  wring  his  child’s  neck  and  pick 
his  friend’s  pocket  if  nothing  checked  him.  In  fact,  the 
principle  thus  stated  means  only  that  governments  will  op- 
press unless  they  abstain  from  oppressing.  This  is  quite 
true,  we  own.  But  we  might  with  equal  propriety  turn  the 
maxim  round,  and  lay  it  down,  as  the  fundamental  principle 
of  government,  that  all  rulers  will  govern  well,  unless  some 
motive  interferes  to  keep  them  from  doing  so. 

If  there  be,  as  the  Westminster  Reviewer  acknowledges, 
certain  checks  which,  under  political  institutions  the  most 
arbitrary  in  seeming,  sometimes  produce  good  government, 
and  almost  always  place  some  restraint  on  the  rapacity  and 
cruelty  of  the  powerful,  surely  the  knowledge  of  those 
checks,  of  their  nature,  and  of  their  effect,  must  be  a most 
important  part  of  the  science  of  governiaent.  Does  Mr. 
Mill  say  anything  upon  this  part  of  the  subject?  Not  one 
word. 

The  line  of  defence  now  taken  by  the  Utilitarians  evi- 
dently degrades  Mr.  Mill’s  theory  of  government  from  the 
rank  which,  till  within  the  last  few  months,  was  claimed 
for  it  by  the  whole  sect.  It  is  no  longer  a practical  system, 
fit  to  guide  statesmen,  but  merely  a b^arren  exercise  of  the 
intellect,  like  those  propositions  in  mechanics  in  which  the 
effect  of  friction  and  of  the  resistance  of  the  air  is  left  out 
of  the  question  ; and  which,  therefore,  though  correctly  de- 
duced from  the  premises,  are  in  practice  utterly  false.  For, 
if  Mr.  Mill  professes  to  prove  only  that  absolute  monarchy 
and  aristocracy  are  pernicious  without  checks, — if  he  allows 
that  there  are  checks  which  produce  good  government  even 
under  absolute  monarchs  and  aristocracies, — and  if  he  omits 
to  tell  us  what  those  checks  arc,  and  what  effects  they  pro- 
duce under  different  circumstances, — he  surely  gives  us  n3 
information  which  can  be  of  real  utility. 

But  the  fact  is, — and  it  is  most  extraordinary  that  the 
Westminster  Reviewer  should  not  have  perceived  it, — that, 
if  once  the  existence  of  checks  on  the  abuse  of  power  in 
monarchies  and  aristocracies  be  admitted,  the  whole  of  Mr. 
Mill’s  theory  falls  to  the  ground  at  once.  This  is  so  palpa- 
ble, that,  in  spite  of  the  opinion  of  the  Westminster  Re- 
viewer, we  must  acquit  Mr.  Mill  of  having  intended  to  make 
such  an  admission.  We  still  think  that  the  words,  ‘‘  v/here 
power  over  a community  is  attained,  and  nothing  checks,” 
must  not  be  understood  to  mean  that  under  a monarchical 


454  m/caulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

or  aristocratical  form  of  government  there  can  really  be 
any  check  which  can  in  any  degree  mitigate  the  wretched- 
ness of  the  people. 

For  all  possible  checks  may  bo  classed  ander  two  gen- 
eral heads, — want  of  will,  and  want  of  power.  Now,  if  a 
king  or  an  aristocracy,  having  the  power  to  plunder  and 
oppress  the  people,  can  want  the  will,  all  Mr.  Mill’s  prin- 
ciples of  human  nature  must  be  pronounced  unsound.  Tie 
tells  us,  “ that  the  desire  to  possess  unlimited  power  of  in- 
dicting pain  upon  others,  is  an  inseparable  part  of  human 
nature  ; ” and  that  “ a chain  of  inference,  close  and  strong 
to  a most  unusual  degree,”  leads  to  the  conclusion  that  those 
who  possess  this  power  will  always  desire  to  use  it.  It  is 
plain,  therefore,  that  if  Mr.  Mill’s  principles  be  sound,  the 
check  on  a monarchical  or  an  aristocratical  government 
will  not  be  the  want  of  will  to  oppress. 

If  a king  or  an  aristocracy,  having,  as  Mr.  Mill  tells  us 
that  they  always  must  have,  the  will  to  oppress  the  people 
with  the  utmost  severity,  want  the  power,  then  the  govern- 
ment, by  whatever  name  it  may  be  called,  must  be  virtually 
a mixed  government  or  a pure  democracy : for  it  is  quite 
clear  that  the  people  possess  some  power  in  the  state — some 
means  of  influencing  the  nominal  rulers.  But  Mr.  Mill  has 
demonstrated  that  no  mixed  government  can  possibly  exist, 
or  at  least  that  such  a government  must  come  to  a very 
speedy  end  ; therefore,  every  country  in  which  people  not 
in  the  service  of  the  government  have,  for  any  length  of 
time,  been  permitted  to  accumulate  more  than  the  bare 
means  of  subsistence  must  be  a pure  democracy.  That  is 
to  say,  France  before  the  revolution,  and  Ireland  during 
the  last  century,  were-  pure  democracies.  Prussia,  Austria, 
Russia,  all  the  governments  of  the  civilized  world,  are  pure 
democracies.  If  this  be  not  a reductio  ad  ahsurdum^  we 
do  not  know  what  is. 

The  errors  of  Mr.  Mill  proceed  principally  from  that 
radical  vice  in  his  reasoning  w'hich,  in  our  last  number,  we 
described  in  the  words  of  Lord  Bacon.  The  Westminster 
Reviewer  is  unable  to  discover  the  meaning  of  our  extracts 
from  the  Novum  Organum^  and  expresses  himself  as  follows* 

“ The  quotations  from  Lord  Bacon  are  misapplications,  such  as  anybody 
may  make  to  anything  lie  dislikes.  There  is  no  more  resemblance  between 
pain,  pleasure,  motives,  &c.,  a,nd  substantia^  generatio,  corruption  elemen- 
tumn  materia^ — than  between  lines,  angles,  magnitudes,  &c.,  and  tlie 
same.” 

It  woul  I perhaps  be  unreasonable  to  expect  thpt  o 


utilitarian  theory  of  government. 


455 


writer  who  cannot  understand  his  own  English  should  un- 
derstand Lord  Bacon’s  Latin.  We  will  therefore  attempt 
to  make  our  meaning  clearer. 

What  Lord  Bacon  blames  in  the  schoolmen  of  his  time 
is  this, — that  they  reasoned  syllogistically  on  words  which 
had  not  been  defined  with  precision ; such  as  moist,  dry, 
generation,  corruption,  and  so  forth.  Mr.  Mill’s  error  is 
exactly  of  the  same  kind.  He  reasons  syllogistically  about 
p3wer,  pleasure,  and  pain,  without  attaching  any  definite 
notion  to  any  one  of  those  words.  There  is  no  more  re- 
semblance, says  the  Westminster  Reviewer,  between  pain 
and  substantia  than  between  pain  and  a line  or  an  angle. 
By  his  permission,  in  the  very  point  to  which  Lord  Bacon’s 
observation  applies,  Mr.  Mill’s  subjects  do  resemble  the 
substantia  and  elementum  of  the  schoolmen  and  differ  from 
the  lines  and  magnitudes  of  Euclid.  We  can  reason  a 
'priori  on  mathematics,  because  we  can  define  with  an  ex- 
actitude which  precludes  all  possibility  of  confusion.  If  a 
mathematician  were  to  admit  the  least  laxity  into  his  no- 
tions, if  he  were  to  allow  himself  to  be  deluded  by  the 
vague  sense  which  words  bear  in  popular  use,  or  by  the  as- 
pect of  an  ill-drawn  diagram,  if  he  were  to  forget  in  his  rea- 
sonings that  a point  was  indivisible,  or  that  the  definition 
of  a line  excluded  breadth,  there  would  be  no  end  to  his 
blunders.  The  schoolmen  tried  to  reason  mathematically 
about  things  which  had  not  been,  and  perhaps  could  not  be, 
defined  with  mathematical  accuracy.  We  know  the  re- 
sult. Mr.  Mill  has  in  our  time  attempted  to  do  the  same. 
He  talks  of  power,  for  example,  as  if  the  meaning  of  the 
word  power  were  as  determinate  as  the  meaning  of  the  word 
circle.  But,  when  we  analyze  his  speculations,  we  find  that 
his  notion  of  power  is,  in  the  words  of  Bacon,  phantastica 
et  male  terminata^ 

There  are  two  senses  in  which  we  may  use  the  word 
power ^ and  those  words  which  denote  the  various  distribu- 
tions of  power,  as,  for  example,  monarchy  / — the  one  sense 
popular  and  superficial, — the  other  more  scientific  and  ac- 
curate. Mr.  Mfll,  since  he  chose  to  reason  a priori^  ought 
to  have  clearly  pointed  out  in  which  sense  he  intended  to 
use  words  of  this  kind,  and  to  have  adhered  inflexibly  to  the 
sense  on  which  he  fixed.  Instead  of  doing  this,  he  flies 
backwards  and  forwards  from  the  one  sense  to  the  other, 
and  brings  out  conclusions  at  last  which  suit  neither. 

The  state  of  those  two  communities  to  which  he  hag 


456  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

himself  referred — tlie  kingdom  of  Denmark  and  the  empire 
of  J{ome — may  serve  to  illustrate  our  meaning.  Looking 
merely  at  the  surface  of  things,  we  should  call  Denmark  a 
despotic  monarchy,  and  the  ] toman  world,  in  the  first  cen- 
tury after  Christ,  an  aristocratical  rc])ublic.  Caligula  was^ 
in  theory,  nothing  more  than  a magistrate  elected  by  the 
senate,  and  subject  to  the  senate.  That  irresponsible  dig- 
nity which,  in  the  most  limited  monarchies  of  our  time,  is 
ascribed  to  the  person  of  the  sovereign  never  belonged  lo 
the  earlier  Ca3sars.  The  sentence  of  death  which  the  great 
council  of  the  commonwealth  passed  on  Nero  was  strictly 
according  to  the  theory  of  the  constitution.  Yet,  in  fact, 
the  power  of  the  Roman  emperors  approached  nearer  to  ab- 
solute dominion  than  that  of  any  prince  in  modern  Europe. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  King  of  Denmark,  in  theory  the 
most  despotic  of  princes,  would  in  practice  find  it  most  per- 
ilous to  indulge  in  cruelty  and  licentiousness.  Nor  is  there, 
we  believe,  at  the  present  moment  a single  sovereign  in  our 
part  of  the  world  who  has  so  much  real  power  over  the 
lives  of  his  subjects  as  Robespierre,  while  he  lodged  at  a 
chandler’s  and  dined  at  a restaurateur’s,  exercised  over  the 
li\  es  of  those  whom  he  called  his  fellow-citizens. 

Mr.  Mill  and  the  Westminster  Reviewer  seem  to  agree 
that  there  cannot  long  exist  in  any  society  a division  of 
power  between  a monarch,  an  aristocracy,  and  the  people, 
or  between  any  two  of  them.  However  the  power  be  dis- 
tributed, one  of  the  three  parties  will,  according  to  them, 
inevitably  monopolize  the  whole.  Now,  what  is  here  meant 
by  power  ? If  Mr.  Mill  speaks  of  the  external  semblance 
of  power, — of  power  recognized  by  the  theory  of  the  con- 
stitution,— ^lie  is  palpably  wrong.  In  England,  for  example, 
we  have  had  for  ages  the  name  and  form  of  a mixed  gov- 
ernment, if  nothing  more.  Indeed,  Mr.  Mill  himself  owns 
that  there  are  appearances  which  have  given  color  to  the 
theoi  y of  the  balance,  though  he  maintains  that  these  ap- 
j)carances  are  delusive.  But,  if  he  uses  the  word  power 
in  a deeper  and  philosophical  sense,  he  is,  if  possible,  still 
more  in  the  wrong  than  on  the  former  supposition.  For,  if 
he  had  considered  in  what  the  power  of  one  human  being 
over  other  human  beings  must  ultimately  consist,  he  would 
have  ])erceived,  not  only  that  there  are  mixed  governments 
in  the  world,  but  that  all  the  governments  in  the  world,  and 
all  the  governments  which  can  even  be  conceived  as  exist- 
ing in  the  world,  a^'e  virtually  mixed. 


UTILITARIAN  THEORY  OF  GOVERNMENT. 


467 


If  a king  possessed  the  lamp  of  Aladdin, — if  he  governed 
by  the  help  of  a genius  who  carried  away  the  daughters  and 
wives  of  his  subjects  through  the  air  to  the  royal  I^arc-aux- 
cerfs^  and  turned  into  stone  every  man  who  wagged  a finger 
against  his  majesty’s  government,  there  would  indeed  be  an 
unmixed  despotism.  But,  fortunately,  a ruler  can  be  grat- 
ified only  by  means  of  his  subjects.  Ilis  power  depends  on 
their  obedience  ; and,  as  any  three  or  four  of  them  are  more 
than  a match  for  him  by  himself,  he  can  only  enforce  the 
unwilling  obedience  of  some  by  means  of  the  willing  obe- 
dience of  others. 

Take  any  of  those  who  are  popularly  called  absolute 
princes  — Napoleon  for  example.  Could  Napoleon  have 
walked  through  Paris,  cutting  off  the  head  of  one  per- 
son in  every  house  which  he  passed?  Certainly  not  with- 
out the  assistance  of  an  army.  If  not,  why  not?  Be- 
cause the  people  had  sufficient  physical  power  to  resist  him, 
and  would  have  put  forth  that  power  in  defence  of  their 
lives  and  of  the  lives  of  their  children.  In  other  Avords, 
there  was  a portion  of  power  in  the  democracy  under  Na- 
poleon. Napoleon  might  probably  have  indulged  himself  in 
such  an  atrocious  freak  of  power  if  his  army  Avould  havo 
seconded  him.  But,  if  his  army  had  taken  part  with  the 
people,  he  would  have  found  himself  utterly  helpless ; and, 
even  if  they  had  obeyed  his  orders  against  the  people,  they 
would  not  have  suffered  him  to  decimate  their  own  body. 
In  other  Avords,  there  was  a portion  of  power  in  the  hands 
of  a minority  of  the  people,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  hands  of  an 
aristocracy,*  under  the  reign  of  Napoleon. 

To  come  nearer  home, — Mr.  Mill  tells  us  that  it  is  a mis- 
take to  imagine  that  the  English  government  is  mixed.  He 
holds,  we  suppose,  with  all  the  politicians  of  the  Utilitarian 
school,  that  it  is  purely  aristocratical.  There  certainly  is 
an  aristocracy  in  England;  and  we  are  afraid  that  their 
power  is  greater  than  it  ought  to  be.  They  have  poAver 
enough  to  keep  up  the  game-laws  and  corn-laws ; but  they 
have  not  power  enough  to  subject  the  bodies  of  men  of  the 
lowest  class  to  wanton  outrage  at  their  pleasure.  Suppose 
that  they  were  to  make  a laAV  that  any  gentleman  of  two 
thousand  a-year  might  have  a day-laborer  or  a pauper 
flogged  Avith  a cat-of-nine-tails  whenever  the  whim  might 
take  him.  It  is  quite  clear  that  the  first  day  on  which  such 
flagellation  should  be  administered  would  be  the  last  day  of 
the  English  aristocracy.  In  this  point,  and  in  many  other 


458  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

points  which  might  be  named,  the  commonalty  in  our  isl- 
and enjoy  a security  quite  as  com])lete  as  if  they  exercised 
the  right  of  universal  suffrage.  We  say,  therefore,  that  the 
English  people  have  in  their  own  hands  a sufficient  guar- 
antee that  in  some  points  tlie  aristocracy  will  conform  to 
their  wishes ; — in  other  words,  they  liave  a certain  portion 
of  power  over  the  aristocracy.  Therefore  the  English 
government  is  mixed. 

Wherever  a king  or  an  oligarchy  refrains  from  the  last 
extremity  of  rapacity  and  tyranny  through  fear  of  the  resist- 
ance of  the  people,  there  the  constitution,  whatever  it  may  be 
called,  is  in  some  measure  democratical.  The  admixture  of 
democratic  power  may  be  slight.  It  may  be  much  slighter 
than  it  ought  to  be ; but  some  admixture  there  is.  Wher- 
ever a numerical  minority,  by  means  of  superior  wealth  or 
intelligence,  of  political  concert,  or  of  military  discipline,  ex- 
ercises a greater  influence  on  the  society  than  any  other 
equal  number  of  persons, — there,  whatever  the  form  of  gov* 
ernment  may  be  called,  a mixture  of  aristocracy  does  in  fact 
exist.  And,  wherever  a single  man,  from  whatever  cause,  is 
so  necessary  to  the  community,  or  to  any  portion  of  it,  that 
he  possesses  more  power  than  any  other  man,  there  is  a mix- 
ture of  monarchy.  This  is  the  philosophical  classification 
of  governments : and  if  we  use  this  classification  we  shall 
find,  not  only  that  there  are  mixed  governments,  but  that 
all  governments  are,  and  must  always  be,  mixed.  But  we 
may  safely  challenge  Mr.  Mill  to  give  any  definition  of  power, 
or  to  make  any  classification  of  governments,  which  shall 
bear  him  out  in  his  assertion  that  a lasting  division  of 
authority  is  impracticable. 

It  is  evidently  on  the  real  distribution  of  power,  and  not 
on  names  and  badges,  that  the  happiness  of  nations  must 
depend.  The  representative  system,  though  doubtless  a 
great  and  precious  discovery  in  politics,  is  only  one  of  the 
many  modes  in  which  the  democratic  part  of  the  community 
can  efficiently  check  the  governing  few.  That  certain  men 
have  been  chosen  as  deputies  of  the  people, — that  there  is  a 
piece  of  paper  stating  such  deputies  to  possess  certain  pow- 
ers,— these  circumstances  in  themselves  constitute  no  secur- 
ity for  good  government.  Such  a constitution  nominally 
existed  in  France ; while,  in  fact,  an  oligarchy  of  commit- 
tees and  clubs  trampled  at  once  on  the  electors  and  the  elected. 
Representation  is  a very  happy  contrivance  for  enabling  large 
bodies  of  men  to  exert  their  power  with  less  risk  of  disor- 


UTIIJTAMAN  TTIEORY  OR  GOVERNMENT. 


459 


der  than  there  would  otherwise  be.  But,  assuredly,  it  does 
not  of  itsftlf  give  power.  Unless  a representative  assembly 
IS  sure  of  being  supported  in  the  last  resort  by  the  physical 
strength  of  large  masses  who  have  spirit  to  defend  the  con- 
stitution and  sense  to  defend  it  in  concert,  the  mob  of  the 
town  in  which  it  meets  may  overaw^e  it ; — the  howls  of  the 
listeners  in  its  gallery  may  silence  its  deliberations ; — an  able 
and  daring  individual  may  dissolve  it.  And,  if  that  sense 
and  that  spirit  of  v/hich  we  speak  be  diffused  through  a so- 
ciety, then,  even  without  a representative  assembly,  that  soci- 
ety will  enjoy  many  of  the  blessings  oi  good  government. 

Which  is  the  better  able  to  defend  himself ; a strong  man 
wuth  nothing  but  his  fists,  or  a paralytic  cripple  encumbered 
with  a sword  which  ho  cannot  lift?  Such,  we  believe,  is  the 
difference  between  Denmark  and  some  new  republics  in 
which  the  constitutional  forms  of  the  United  States  have 
been  most  sedulously  imitated. 

Look  at  the  Long  Parliament  on  the  day  on  w^hich 
Charles  came  to  seize  the  five  members : and  look  at  it  again 
on  the  day  when  Cromwell  stamped  with  his  foot  on  its 
floor.  On  which  day  was  its  apparent  power  the  greater  f 
On  which  day  w^as  its  real  power  the  less  ? Nominally  sub- 
ject, it  was  able  to  defy  the  sovereign.  Nominally  sover- 
eign, it  was  turned  out  of  doors  by  its  servant. 

Constitutions  are  in  politics  what  paper  money  is  in  com- 
merce. They  afford  great  facilities  and  conveniences.  But 
we  must  not  attribute  to  them  that  value  which  really  be- 
longs to  what  they  represent.  They  are  not  power,  but  sym- 
bols of  power,  and  will,  in  an  emergency,  prove  altogether 
useless  unless  the  power  for  which  they  stand  be  forthcoming. 
The  real  power  by  which  the  community  is  governed  is 
made  up  of  all  the  means  which  all  its  members  possess  of 
giving  pleasure  or  pain  to  each  other. 

Great  light  may  be  thrown  on  the  nature  of  a circulating 
rnediuiu  by  the  phenomena  of  a state  of  barter.  And  in  the 
same  manner  it  may  be  useful  to  those  who  wish  to  compre- 
hend the  nature  and  operation  of  the  outward  signs  of 
power  to  look  at  communities  in  which  no  such  signs  exist ; 
for  example,  at  the  great  community  of  nations.  There  we 
find  nothing  analogous  to  a constitution : but  do  we  not  find  a 
government?  We  do  in  fact  find  government  in  its  purest, 
and  simplest,  and  most  intelligible  form.  We  see  one  por- 
tion of  power  acting  directly  on  another  portion  of  power. 
We  see  a certain  police  kept  up;  the  weak  to  a certain 


460  MACATJLAY'8  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

degree  protected ; tlie  strong  to  a certain  degree  restrained. 
We  see  the  principle  of  the  balance  in  const.ant  operation. 
We  see  the  whole  system  sometimes  undisturbed  by  any  at- 
tempt at  encroachment  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  at  a time ; 
and  all  this  is  produced  without  a legislative  assembly,  or 
an  executive  magistracy — without  tribunals — without  any 
code  which  deserves  the  name ; solely  by  the  mutual  ho])e8 
and  fears  of  the  various  members  of  the  federation.  In  tho 
community  of  nations,  the  first  appeal  is  to  physical  force. 
In  communities  of  men,  forms  of  government  serve  to  put 
off  that  appeal,  and  often  render  it  unnecessary.  But  it  is 
still  open  to  the  oppressed  or  the  ambitious. 

Of  course,  we  do  not  mean  to  deny  that  a form  of  gov- 
ernment will,  after  it  has  existed  for  a long  time,  materially 
affect  the  real  distribution  of  power  throughout  the  com- 
munity. This  is  because  those  who  administer  a government, 
with  their  dependents,  form  a compact  and  disciplined  body, 
which,  acting  methodically  and  in  concert,  is  more  powerful 
than  any  other  equally  numerous  body  which  is  inferior  in 
organization.  The  power  of  rulers  is  not,  as  superficial  ob- 
servers sometimes  seem  to  think,  a thing  sui  generis.  It  is 
exactly  similar  in  kind,  though  generally  superior  in  amount, 
to  that  of  any  set  of  conspirators  who  plot  to  overthrow  it. 
We  have  seen  in  our  time  the  most  extensive  and  the  best 
organized  conspiracy  that  ever  existed — a conspiracy  which 
possessed  all  the  elements  of  real  power  in  so  great  a degree 
that  it  was  able  to  cope  with  a strong  government,  and  to 
triumph  over  it — the  Catholic  Association.  An  Utilitarian 
would  tell  us,  we  suppose,  that  the  Irish  Catholics  had  no 
portion  of  political  power  whatever  on  the  first  day  of  the 
late  Session  of  Parliament. 

Let  us  really  go  beyond  the  surface  of  facts ; let  us,  in 
the  sound  sense  of  the  words,  penetrate  to  the  springs  with- 
in ; and  the  deeper  we  go  the  more  reason  shall  we  find  to 
smile  at  those  theorists  who  hold  that  the  sole  hope  of  the 
human  race  is  in  a rule-of-three  sum  and  a ballot-box. 

We  must  now  return  to  the  Westminster  Reviewer. 
The  following  paragraph  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  his  pe- 
culiar mode  of  understanding  and  answering  arg^Aments. 

“ The  reply  to  the  argument  against  ‘ saturation  * supplies  its  own  answer. 
The  reason  why  it  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  ‘ saturate  ’ is  precisely  what  the  Edin- 
burgh Reviewers  have  suggested,—*  that  there  is  no  limit  to  the  number  o/ 
thieves.*  There  are  the  thieves  and  the  thieves’ cousins, — with  their  men- 
servants,  their  maid-servants,  and  their  little  ones,  to  the  fortieth  generation. 
It  is  true,  that  ‘ a man  cannot  become  a king  or  a member  of  the  aristocracy 


UTILITARIAN  THEORY  OP  GOVERNMENT. 


4bl 


whenever  he  chooses  •/  but  if  there  is  to  be  no  limit  to  the  depredators  ex* 
/.ept  their  own  inclination  to  increase  and  multiply,  the  situation  of  those 
who  are  to  suffer  is  as  wretched  as  its  needs  be.  It  is  impossible  to  define 
what  are  ‘ corporal  pleasures.’  A Duchess  of  Cleveland  was  a ‘ corporal 
pleasure.*  The  most  disgraceful  period  in  the  history  of  any  nation — that 
of  the  Restoration— presents  an  instance  of  the  length  to  which  it  is  possible 
to  go  in  an  attemi)t  to  ‘ saturate  ’ with  pleasures  of  this  kind.’* 

To  reason  with  such  a writer  is  like  talking  to  a deaf 
man  who  catches  at  a stray  word,  makes  answer  beside  the 
mark,  and  is  led  further  and  further  into  error  by  every  at- 
tempt  to  explain.  Yet,  that  our  readers  may  fully  appre- 
ciate the  abilities  of  the  new  philosophers,  we  shall  take  the 
trouble  to  go  over  some  of  our  ground  again. 

Mr.  Mill  attempts  to  prove  that  there  is  no  point  of  sat- 
uration with  the  objects  of  human  desire.  He  then  takes  it 
for  granted  that  men  have  no  objects  of  desire  but  those 
which  can  be  obtained  only  at  the  expense  of  the  happiness 
of  others.  Hence  he  infers  that  absolute  monarchs  and 
aristocracies  will  necessarily  oppress  and  pillage  the  people 
to  a frightful  extent. 

We  answer  in  substance  thus.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
objects  of  desire ; those  which  give  mere  bodily  pleasure, 
and  those  which  please  through  the  medium  of  associations. 
Objects  of  the  former  class,  it  is  true,  a man  cannot  obtain 
without  depriving  somebody  else  of  a share.  But  then  with 
these  every  man  is  soon  satisfied.  A king  or  an  aristocracy 
cannot  spend  any  very  large  portion  of  the  national  w^ealtli 
on  the  mere  pleasures  of  sense.  With  the  pleasures  whicli 
belong  to  us  as  reasoning  and  imaginative  beings  we  are 
never  satiated,  it  is  true  : but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  many 
of  those  pleasures  can  be  obtained  without  injury  to  nny 
person,  and  some  of  them  can  be  obtained  only  by  doing 
good  to  others. 

The  Westminster  Reviewer,  in  his  former  attack  on  us, 
laughed  at  us  for  saying  that  a king  or  an  aristocracy  could 
not  be  easily  satiated  with  the  pleasures  of  sense,  and  asked 
why  the  same  course  was  not  tried  with  thieves.  We  were 
not  a little  surprised  at  so  silly  an  objection  from  the  pen, 
as^we  imagined,  of  Mr.  Bentham.  We  returned,  however, 
a very  simple  answer.  There  is  no  limit  to  the  number  of 
thieves.  Any  man  who  chooses  can  steal : but  a man  can- 
not become  a member  of  the  aristocracy  or  a king  whenever 
he  chooses.  To  satiate  one  thief,  is  to  tempt  twenty  other 
people  to  steal.  But  by  satiating  one  king  or  five  hundred 
nobles  with  bodily  pleasures  we  do  not  produce  more  kings 


46*2  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whiting s. 

or  more  nobles.  The  answer  of  the  Westminster  Reviewer 
we  have  quoted  above;  and  it  wdll  aiii])ly  re])ay  our  readers 
tor  tl)e  trouble  of  examining  it.  We  never  read  any  pas- 
sage which  indicated  notions  so  vague  and  confused.  The 
number  of  the  thieves,  says  our  Utilitarian,  is  not  limited. 
For  there  are  the  dependents  and  friends  of  the  king  and  of 
tlie  nobles.  Is  it  possible  that  he  should  not  perceive  that 
this  comes  under  a different  head?  The  bodily  pleasures 
which  a man  in  power  dispenses  among  his  creatures  are 
bodily  pleasures  as  respects  his  creatures,  no  doubt.  But 
the  pleasure  which  he  derives  from  bestowing  them  is  not 
a bodily  pleasure.  It  is  one  of  those  pleasures  which  belong 
to  him  as  a reasoning  and  imaginative  being.  No  man  oi 
common  understanding  can  have  failed  to  perceive  that, 
when  we  said  that  a king  or  an  aristocracy  might  easily  be 
supplied  to  satiety  with  sensual  pleasures,  we  were  speaking 
of  sensual  pleasures  directly  enjoyed  by  themselves.  But 
“ it  is  impossible,”  says  the  Reviewer,  “ to  define  what  are 
corporal  ] >leasures.”  Our  brother  would  indeed,  we  suspect, 
find  it  a difficult  task ; nor,  if  we  are  to  judge  of  his  genius 
for  classification  from  the  specimen  which  immediately  fol- 
lows, would  we  advise  him  to  make  the  attempt.  “A 
Duchess  of  Cleveland  was  a corporal  pleasure.”  And  to 
this  wise  remark  is  appended  a note,  setting  forth  that  Charles 
the  Second  gave  to  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland  the  money 
which  he  ought  to  have  spent  on  the  war  with  Holland. 
We  scarcely  know  how  to  answ^er  a man  who  unites  so 
much  pretension  to  so  much  ignorance.  There  are,  among 
the  many  Utilitarians  who  talk  about  Hume,  Condillac, 
and  Hartley,  a few  who  have  read  those  writers.  Let 
the  Reviewer  ask  one  of  these  what  he  thinks  on  the  sub- 
ject. We  shall  not  undertake  to  whip  a pupil  of  so  little 
promise  through  his  first  course  of  metaphysics.  We  shall, 
therefore,  only  say — leaving  him  to  guess  and  wonder  what 
we  can  mean — that,  in  our  opinion,  the  Duchess  of  Cleve- 
land was  not  a merely  corporal  pleasure, — that  the  feeling 
which  leads  a prince  to  prefer  one  woman  to  all  others,  and 
to  lavish  the  wealth  of  kingdoms  on  her,  is  a feeling  which 
can  only  be  explained  by  the  law  of  association. 

But  we  are  tired,  and  even  more  ashamed  than  tired,  of 
exposing  these  blunders.  The  whole  article  is  of  a piece. 
One  passage,  however,  we  must  select,  because  it  contains  a 
very  gross  misrepresentation. 

“ ‘ They  never  allnoled  to  the  Fremh  EevoluUon/or  the  purpose  of  proving 


UTILITAKIAN  THEORY  OF  GOVERNMENT. 


4t)0 


that  the  poor  were  inclined  to  rob  the  rich.*  They  only  said,  ‘ae  soon  as  the 
poor  o.gain  began  to  compare  their  cottages  and  salads  with  the  hotels  and 
banquets  of  the  rich,  there  would  have  been  another  scramble  for  property, 
another  geneial  confiscation,’  &c.” 

I 

We  said  that,  if  Mr,  MilVs  principles  of  human  na- 
ture loere  correct,^  there  would  have  been  another  scramble 
for  property,  and  another  confiscation.  We  particularly 
pointed  this  out  in  our  last  article.  We  showed  the  West- 
minster Reviewer  that  he  had  misunderstood  us.  We  dwelt 
particularly  on  the  condition  which  was  introduced  into  our 
statement.  We  said  that  we  had  not  given,  and  did  not 
mean  to  give,  any  opinion  of  our  own.  And,  after  this,  the 
Westminster  Reviewer  thinks  proper  to  repeat  his  former 
misrepresentation,  without  taking  the  least  notice  of  that 
qualification  to  which  we,  in  the  most  marked  manner, 
called  his  attention. 

We  hasten  on  to  the  most  curious  part  of  the  article  un- 
der our  consideration — the  defence  of  the  “ greatest  happi- 
ness principle.”  The  Reviewer  charges  us  with  having 
quite  mistaken  its  nature. 

“ All  that  they  have  established  is,  that  they  do  not  understand  it.  In- 
stead of  the  truism  of  the  Whigs,  ‘ that  the  greatest  happiness  is  the  greatest 
happiness,’  what  Mr.  Bentham  had  demonstrated,  or  at  all  events  had  laid 
such  foundations  that  there  was  no  trouble  in  demonstrating,  was,  that  the 
greatest  happiness  of  the  individual  was  in  the  long  run  to  be  obtained  by 
pursuing  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  aggregate.” 

It  was  distinctly  admitted  by  the  Westminster  Re- 
viewer, as  we  remarked  in  our  last  article,  that  he  could  give 
no  answer  to  the  question — why  governments  should  attempt 
to  produce  the  greatest  possible  happiness  ? The  Reviewer 
replied  thus  : — 

Nothing  of  the  kind  will  be  admitted  at  all.  In  the  passage  this 
selected  to  be  tacked  to  the  other,  the  question  started  was,  concerning  ‘ tne 
object  of  government  ; ’ in  which  government  was  spoken  of  as  an  opera- 
tion, not  as  anything  that  is  capable  of  feeling  pleasure  or  pain.  In 
this  sense  it  is  true  enough,  that  oufit  is  not  predicable  of  governments.” 

We  will  quote,  once  again,  the  passage  which  we  quoted 
in  our  last  Number;  and  we  really  hope  that  our 
brother  critic  will  feel  something  like  shame  while  he 
peruses  it. 

The  real  answer  appeared  to  be,  that  men  at  large  ought  not  to  allow  a 
government  to  afflict  them  with  more  evil  or  less  good,  than  they  can  help. 
What  a government  ought  to  do  is  a mysteriomi  and  searching  question 
which  those  may  answer  who  know  what  it  mean.'  ; but  what  other  men 
ought  to  do  is  a question  of  no  mystery  at  all.  The  word  ought^  if  it  means 
anything,  must  have  reference  to  some  kind  of  interest  or  motives  : and 
wh»t  gQveruBieut  has  in  dqing  xi^bt,  It  to  b© 


464  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

epted  in  doiii"  wrong,  is  a question  for  tlie  schoolmen.  The  fact  appears  to 
be  that  ought  is  not  predicable  of  governments.  The  question  is  not,  why 
governments  are  bound  not  to  do  tliis  or  that,  but  why  other  men  slunild  let 
them  if  they  can  help  it.  The  point  is  not  to  det^ermine  why  tlie  lion  should 
not  eat  sheep,  but  why  men  should  not  eat  their  own  mutton  if  they  can." 

We  defy  tlie  Westminster  Reviewer  to  reconcile  this 
passage  with  the  ‘‘  general  happiness  principle  ” as  he  now 
states  it.  He  tells  us  that  he  meant  by  government,  not  the 
people  invested  with  the  powers  of  government,  but  a mere 
operation  incapable  of  feeling  pleasure  or  pain.  We  say, 
that  he  meant  the  people  invested  with  the  powers  of  gov- 
ernment, and  nothing  else.  It  is  true  that  ought  is  not 
])redicable  of  an  operation.  But  who  would  ever  dream  of 
raising  any  question  about  the  duties  of  an  operation  ? What 
did  the  Reviewer  mean  by  saying,  that  a government  could 
not  be  interested  in  doing  right  because  it  was  interested  in 
doing  wrong?  Can  an  operation  be  interested  in  either? 
And  wdiat  did  he  mean  by  his  comparison  about  the  lion? 
Is  a lion  an  operation  incapable  of  pain  or  pleasure  ? And 
what  did  he  mean  by  the  expression,  “ other  men,”  so  ob- 
viously opposed  to  the  word  “ government  ? ” But  let  the 
public  judge  between  us.  It  is  superfluous  to  argue  a point 
so  clear. 

The  Reviewer  does  indeed  seem  to  feel  that  his  expres- 
sions cannot  be  explained  away,  and  attempts  to  shuffle  out 
of  the  difflculty  by  owning  that,  “ the  double  meaning  of 
the  word  government  was  not  got  clear  of  without  con- 
fusion.” He  has  now,  at  all  events,  he  assures  us,  made 
himself  master  of  Mr.  Bentham’s  philosophy.  The  real  and 
genuine  “greatest  happiness  principle  ” is,  that  the  greatest 
happiness  of  every  individual  is  identical  with  the  greatest 
happiness  of  society;  and  all  other  “greatest  happiness 
jn'inciples  ” whatever  are  counterfeits.  “ This,”  says  he, 
“ is  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Bentham’s  principle ; and  if  there  is 
anything  opposed  to  it  in  any  former  statement  it  may  be 
corrected  by  the  present.” 

“ Assuredly,  if  a fair  and  honorable  opponent  had,  in 
discussing  a question  so  abstruse  as  that  concerning  th^> 
origin  of  moral  obligation,  made  some  unguarded  admission 
inconsistent  with  the  spirit  of  his  doctrines,  we  should  not 
be  inclined  to  triumph  over  him.  But  no  tenderness  is  due 
to  a writer  who,  in  the  very  act  of  confessing  his  blunders, 
insults  those  by  whom  his  blunders  have  been  detected,  and 
accuses  them  of  misunderstanding  what,  in  fact^  he  has  him* 
self  mis-statedi 


utilitarian  TnEOKY  OF  GOVERNMENT. 


465 


The  whole  of  this  transaction  illustrates  excellently  the 
real  character  of  this  sect.  A paper  comes  forth,  professing 
to  contain  a full  development  of  the  “greatest  happiness 
pi'inciple,”  with  the  latest  improvements  of  Mr.  Bentham. 
The  writer  boasts  that  his  article  has  the  honor  of  being 
the  announcement  and  the  origin  of  this  wonderful  dis- 
covery, which  is  to  make  “ the  bones  of  sages  and  patriots 
stir  within  their  tombs.”  This  “ magnificent  principle  ” is 
then  stated  thus  : Mankind  ought  to  pursue  their  greatest 
happiness.  But  there  are  persons  whose  interest  is  o^> 
posed  to  the  greatest  happiness  of  mankind.  Ought  is  not 
predicable  of  such  persons.  For  the  word  ought  has  no 
meaning  unless  it  be  used  with  reference  to  some  interest. 

We  ansAvered,  with  much  more  lenity  than  Ave  should 
ha\^e  show  n to  such  nonsense,  had  it  not  proceeded,  as  we 
supposed,  from  Mr.  Bentham,  that  interest  was  synonymous 
Avith  greatest  happiness ; and  that,  therefore,  if  the  word 
ought  has  no  meaning,  unless  used  Avith  reference  to  inter- 
est, then,  to  say  that  mankind  ought  to  pursue  their  greatest 
happiness,  is  simply  to  say  that  the  greatest  happiness  is  the 
greatest  happiness ; that  every  individual  pursues  his  own  hap- 
piness ; that  cither  w^hat  he  thinks  is  happiness  must  coincide 
with  the  greatest  happiness  of  society  or  not ; that,  if  what  he 
thinks  his  happiness  coincides  Avith  the  greatest  happiness 
of  society,  he  Avill  attempt  to  promote  the  greatest  happi- 
ness of  society  whether  he  cA^er  heard  of  the  “ greatest  hap- 
piness principle  ” or  not ; and  that,  by  the  admission  of  the 
W estminster  Reviewer,  if  his  happiness  is  inconsistent  Avith 
the  greatest  happiness  of  society,  there  is  no  reason  Avhy  he 
should  promote  the  greatest  happiness  of  society.  Now, 
that  there  are  indiAuduals  w^ho  think  that  for  their  happiness 
which  is  not  for  the  greatest  happiness  of  society  is  evident. 
The  Westminster  Reviewer  alio w^ed  that  some  of  these  in- 
dividuals were  in  the  right ; and  did  not  pretend  to  give 
any  reason  which  could  induce  any  one  of  them  to  think 
himself  in  the  wu’ong.  So  that  the  “ magnificent  principle  ” 
turned  out  to  be,  either  a truism  or  a contradiction  in 
terms ; either  this  maxim — “ Do  w'hat  you  do  ; ” or  this 
maxim,  “ Do  what  you  cannot  do.” 

The  Westminster  Reviewer  had  the  wit  to  see  that  lie 
could  not  defend  this  palpable  nonsense ; but,  instead  of 
manfully  owning  that  he  misunderstood  the  whole  nature  of 
the  “greatest  happiness  principle”  in  the  summer,  and  had 
obtained  new  light  during  the  autumn,  he  attempts  to  with* 
Vql. 


86 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLA NEGUS  WHITINGS. 


draw  the  former  principle  unobserved,  and  to  substitute 
another,  directly  opposed  to  it,  in  its  place;  clamoring  all 
the  time  against  our  unfairness,  like  one  who,  while 
changing  the  cards,  diverts  the  attention  of  the  table  from 
his  sleight  of  hand  by  vociferating  charges  of  foul  play 
against  other  people. 

The  greatest  happiness  principle”  for  the  present 
quarter  is  then  this, — that  every  individual  will  best  pro- 
mote his  own  happiness  in  this  world,  religious  considera- 
tions being  left  out  of  the  question,  by  promoting  the 
greatest  happiness  of  the  whole  species.  And  this  prin- 
ciple, we  are  told,  holds  good  with  respect  to  kings  and 
aristocracies  as  well  as  with  other  people. 

“ It  is  certain  that  the  individual  operators  in  any  g“0  vernraent,  if  they 
were  thoroughly  intelligent  and  entered  into  a perfect  calculation  of  all 
existing  chances,  would  seek  for  their  own  happiness  in  the  promotion  of 
the  general ; which  brings  them,  if  they  knew  it,  under  Mr.  Bentham’srule. 
The  mistake  of  supposing  the  contrary,  lies  in  confounding  criminals  who 
have  had  the  luck  to  escape  punishment  with  those  who  have  the  risk  still 
before  them.  Suppose,  for  instance,  a member  of  the  House  of  Commons 
were  at  this  moment  to  debate  within  himself,  whether  it  would  be  for  his 
ultimate  happiness  to  begin,  according  to  his  ability,  to  misgovern.  If  he 
could  be  sure  of  being  as  lucky  as  some  that  are  dead  and  gone  there  might 
be  difficulty  in  finding  him  an  answer.  But  he  is  not  sure;  and  never  can 
be,  till  he  is  dead.  He  does  not  know  that  he  is  not  close  upon  the  moment 
when  misgovernment  such  as  he  is  tempted  to  contemplate,  will  be  made  a 
terrible  example  of.  It  is  not  fair  to  pick  out  the  instance  of  the  thief  that 
has  died  unhanged.  The  question  is,  whether  thieving  is  at  this  moment  an 
advisable  trade  to  begin  with  all  the  possibilities  of  hanging  not  got  ov  er  ? 
This  is  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Bentham’s  principle ; and  if  there  is  anything  op- 
posed to  it  in  any  former  statement,  it  maybe  corrected  by  the  present.  ” 

We  hope  that  we  have  now  at  last  got  to  the  real 

magnificent  principle,” — to  the  principle  which  is  really 
to  make  the  bones  of  the  sages  and  patriots  stir.”  What 
effect  it  may  produce  on  the  bones  of  the  dead  we  shall 
not  pretend  to  decide;  but  we  are  sure  that  it  will  do  very 
little  for  the  happiness  of  the  living. 

In  the  first  place,  nothing  is  more  certain  than  this, 
that  the  Utilitarian  theory  of  government,  as  developed 
in  Mr.  Milks  Essay  and  in  all  the  other  works  on  the 
subject  which  have  been  put  forth  by  the  sect,  rests  on 
these  two  principles, — that  men  follow  their  interest, 
and  that  the  interest  of  individuals  may  be,  and  in 
fact  perpetually  is,  opposed  to  the  interest  of  society. 
Unless  these  two  principles  be  granted,  Mr.  Milks 
Essay  does  not  contain  one  sound  sentence.  All  his 
arguments  against  monarchy  and  aristocracy,  all  his 
arguments  in  favor  of  democracy,  nay,  the  very  ar« 


tJTILlTAniAK  THEORY  OF  GOYERNATENT. 


467 


gument  by  which  he  shows  that  there  is  any  necessity  for 
having  government  at  all,  must  be  rejected  as  utterly  worth- 
less. 

This  is  so  palpable  that  even  the  Westminster  Reviewer, 
though  not  the  most  clear-sighted  of  men,  could  not  help 
seeing  it.  Accordingly,  he  attempts  to  guard  himself 
against  the  objection,  after  the  manner  of  such  reasoners, 
by  committing  two  blunders  instead  of  one.  “ All  this,” 
says  he,  “ only  shows  that  the  members  of  a government 
would  do  well  if  they  were  all-wise ; ” and  he  proceeds  to 
tell  us  that,  as  rulers  are  not  all-wise,  they  will  invariably 
act  against  this  principle  wherever  they  can,  so  that  the 
democratical  checks  will  still  be  necessary  to  produce  good 
government. 

No  form  which  human  folly  takes  is  so  richly  and  ex- 
quisitely laughable  as  the  spectacle  of  an  Utilitarian  in  a 
dilemma.  What  earthly  good  can  there  be  in  a principle 
upon  which  no  man  will  act  until  he  is  all-wise  ? A certain 
most  important  doctrine,  we  are  told,  has  been  demonstrated 
BO  clearly  that  it  ought  to  be  the  foundation  of  the  science 
of  government.  And  yet  the  whole  frame  of  government 
is  to  be  constituted  exactly  as  if  his  fundamental  doctrine 
were  false,  and  on  the  supposition  that  no  human  being  will 
ever  act  as  if  he  believed  it  to  be  true ! 

The  whole  argument  of  the  Utilitarians  in  favor  of  uni- 
versal suffrage  proceeds  on  the  supposition  that  even  the 
rudest  and  most  uneducated  men  cannot,  for  any  length 
of  time,  be  deluded  into  acting  against  their  own  true  in- 
terest. Yet  now  they  tell  us  that,  in  all  aristocratical  com- 
munities, the  higher  and  more  educated  class  will,  not  oc- 
casionally, but  invariably,  act  against  its  own  interest. 
Now,  the  only  use  of  proving  anything,  as  far  as  we  can 
see,  is  that  people  may  believe  it.  To  say  that  a man  does 
what  he  believes  to  be  against  his  happiness  is  a contradic- 
tion in  terms.  If,  therefore,  government  and  laws  are  to  be 
constituted  on  the  supposition  on  which  [vir.  Mill’s  Essay  is 
founded,  that  all  individuals  will,  whenever  they  have 
power  over  others  put  into  their  hands,  act  in  opposition  to 
the  general  happiness,  then  government  and  laws  must  be 
constituted  on  the  supposition  that  no  individual  believes, 
or  ever  will  believe,  his  own  happiness  to  be  identical  with 
the  happiness  of  society.  That  is  to  say,  government  and 
laws  are  to  be  constituted  on  the  supposition  that  no  human 
being  will  ever  be  satisfied  by  Mr.  Bentliam’s  proof  of  iiis 


468 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


1 

/ 


“greatest  happiness*  principle,” — a supposition  which  may 
he  true  enougli,  but  which  says  little,  we  think,  for  the  prin- 
ciple in  question. 

But  where  has  this  principle  been  demon^rated  ? We 
are  curious,  we  confess,  to  see  this  demonstration  which  is 
to  change  the  face  of  the  world  and  yet  is  to  convince  no- 
body. The  most  amusing  circumstance  is  that  the  West- 
minster Reviewer  himself  does  not  seem  to  know  whether 
the  principle  has  been  demonstrated  or  not.  “ Mr.  Bern 
tham,”  he  says,  “ has  demonstrated  it,  or  at  all  events  has 
laid  such  foundations  that  there  is  no  trouble  in  demon- 
strating it.”  Surely  it  is  rather  strange  that  such  a matter 
should  be  left  in  doubt.  The  Reviewer  proposed,  in  his 
former  article,  a slight  verbal  emendation  in  the  statement 
of  the  principle  ; he  then  announced  that  the  principle  had 
received  its  last  improvement ; and  gloried  in  the  circum- 
stance that  the  Westminster  Review  had  been  selected  as 
the  organ  of  that  improvement.  Did  it  never  occur  to  him 
that  one  slight  improvement  to  a doctrine  is  to  prove  it  ? 

Mr.  Bentham  has  not  demonstrated  the  “ greatest  hap- 
piness principle,”  as  now  stated.  He  is  far  too  wise  a man 
to  think  of  demonstrating  any  such  thing.  In  those  sec- 
tions of  his  Introduction  to  the  Principles  of  Morals  and 
Legislation^  to  which  the  Reviewer  refers  us  in  his  note, 
there  is  not  a word  of  the  kind.  Mr.  Bentham  says,  most 
truly,  that  there  are  no  occasions  in  which  a man  has  not 
some  motives  for  consulting  the  happiness  of  other  men ; 
and  he  proceeds  to  set  forth  what  those  motives  are — sym- 
pathy on  all  occasions,  and  the  love  of  reputation  on  most 
occasions.  This  is  the  very  doctrine  which  we  have  been 
maintaining  against  Mr.  Mill  and  the  Westminster  Re- 
viewer. The  principal  charge  which  we  brought  against 
Mr.  Mill  was,  that  those  motives  to  which  Mr.  Bentham  as- 
cribes so  much  influence  were  quite  left  out  of  considera- 
tion in  his  theory.  The  W estminster  Reviewer,  in  the  very 
Article  now  before  us,  abuses  us  for  saying,  in  the  spirits  and 
almost  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Bentham,  that  “ there  is  a cer- 
tain check  to  the  rapacity  and  cruelty  of  men  in  their  desire 
of  the  good  opinion  of  others.”  But  does  this  principle,  in 
which  we  fully  agree  with  Mr.  Bentham,  go  the  length  of 
the  new  “ greatest  happiness  principle  ? ” The  question  is, 
not  whether  men  have  some  motives  for  promoting  the 
greatest  happiness,  but  whether  the  stronger  motives  be 
those  which  impel  them  to  promote  the  greatest  happiness. 


Utilitarian  tiieory  ur  sovernMenT. 


4G9 


That  this  would  always  he  the  case  if  men  knew  their  own 
worldly  interests  is  the  assertion  of  the  Reviewer.  As  he 
expresses  some  doubt  whether  Mr.  Bentharn  has  demon- 
strated this  or  not,  we  would  advise  him  to  set  the  point  at 
rest  by  giving  his  own  demonstration. 

The  Reviewer  has  not  attempted  to  give  a general  con- 
firmation of  the  ‘‘  greatest  happiness  principle ; ” but  he  has 
tried  to  prove  that  it  holds  good  in  one  or  two  particular 
cases.  And  even  in  those  particular  cases  he  has  utterly 
failed.  A man,  says  he,  who  calculated  the  chances  fairly 
would  perceive  that  it  would  be  for  his  greatest  happiness  to 
abstain  from  stealing ; for  a thief  runs  a greater  risk  of  be- 
ing hanged  than  an  lionest  man. 

It  would  have  been  wise,  we  think,  in  the  Westminster 
Reviewer,  before  he  entered  on  a discussion  of  this  sort,  to 
settle  ill  what  human  happiness  consists.  Each  of  the  an- 
cient sects  of  philosophy  held  some  tenet  on  this  subject 
which  served  for  a distinguishing  badge.  The  summum 
honum  of  the  Utilitarians,  as  far  as  we  can  judge  fr.om  the 
passage  which  we  are  now  considering,  is  the  not  being 
hanged. 

That  it  is  an  unpleasant  thing  to  bo  hanged,  we  most 
willingly  concede  to  our  brother.  But  that  the  whole  ques- 
tion of  happiness  or  misery  resolves  itself  into  this  single 
point,  Ave  cannot  so  easily  admit.  We  must  look  at  the 
thing  purchased  as  Avell  as  the  price  paid  for  it.  A thief, 
assuredly,  runs  a greater  risk  of  being  hanged  than  a la- 
borer ; and  so  an  olHcer  in  the  army  runs  a greater  risk  of 
being  shot  than  a banker’s  clerk ; and  a governor  of  India 
runs  a greater  risk  of  dying  of  cholera  than  a lord  of  the 
bedchamber.  But  does  it  therefore  follow  that  every  man, 
whatever  his  habits  or  feelings  may  be,  would,  if  he  knew 
his  OAvn  happiness,  become  a clerk  ratlier  than  a cornet,  or 
gold  stick  in  waiting  rather  than  governor  of  India  ? 

Nothing  can  be  more  absurd  than  to  suppose,  like  the 
Westminster  Reviewer,  that  thieves  steal  only  because  they 
do  not  calculate  the  chances  of  being  hanged  as  correctly  as 
honest  men.  It  never  seems  to  have  occurred  to  him  as 
possible  that  a man  may  so  greatly  }:>refer  the  life  of  a thief 
to  the  life  of  a laborer  that  he  may  determine  to  brave 
the  risk  of  detection  and  punishment,  though  he  may  even 
think  that  risk  greater  than  it  really  is.  And  how,  on  Util- 
itarian principles,  is  sucli  a man  to  be  convinced  that  he  is 
in  the  Avrong  ? “ You  will  be  found  out.” — “ Undoubtedly.” 


470 


MACAULAY’r  MlSCKT.LANliOrB  WKITTNGS. 


— “You  will  he  hanged  within  two  years.” — “ I expect  to  I 
be  hanged  within  one  year.” — “ Then  why  do  you  pursue  § 
this  lawless  mode  of  life  ? ” — Because  I would  rather  live  for  % 
one  year  with  plenty  of  money,  dressed  like  a gentleman,  | 
eating  and  drinking  of  the  best,  frequenting  public  places, 
and  visiting  a dashing  mistress,  than  break  stones  on  the 
road,  or  sit  down  to  the  loom,  with  the  certainty  of  at-  ; 
taining  a good  old  age.  It  is  my  humor.  Arc  you  an- 
swered ? ” 

A king,  says  the  Reviewer  again,  would  govern  well,  if 
he  were  wise,  for  fear  of  provoking  his  subjects  to  insurrec- 
tion. Therefore,  the  true  happiness  of  a king  is  identical 
with  the  greatest  happiness  of  society.  Tell  Charles  II.  that, 
if  he  will  be  constant  to  his  queen,  sober  at  table,  regular  at 
prayers,  frugal  in  his  expenses,  active  in  the  transaction  of 
business,  if  he  will  drive  the  herd  of  slaves,  buffoons,  and 
procurers  from  Whitehall,  and  make  the  happiness  of  his 
people  the  rule  of  his  conduct,  he  will  have  a much  greater 
chance  of  reigning  in  comfort  to  an  advanced  age ; that  his 
profusion  and  tyranny  have  exasperated  his  subjects,  and 
may,  perhaps,  bring  him  to  an  end  as  terrible  as  his  father’s. 
He  might  answer,  that  ho  saw  the  danger,  but  that  life  was 
not  worth  having  wdthout  ease  and  vicious  pleasures.  And 
what  has  our  philosoi)hcr  to  say  ? Does  he  not  see  that  it 
is  no  more  possible  to  reason  a man  out  of  liking  a short  life 
and  a merry  one  more  than  a longlife  and  a dull  one  than  to 
reason  a Greenlander  out  of  his  train-oil  ? We  may  say 
that  the  tastes  of  the  thief  and  the  tyrant  differ  from  ours ; 
but  what  right  have  we  to  say,  looking  at  this  world  alone, 
that  they  do  not  pursue  their  greatest  happiness  very  judi- 
ciously ? 

It  is  the  grossest  ignorance  of  human  nature  to  suppose 
that  another  man  calculates  the  chances  differently  from  us, 
merely  because  he  does  what,  in  his  place,  we  should  not  do. 
Every  man  has  tastes  and  propensities,  which  he  is  disposed 
to  gratify  at  a risk  and  expense  which  people  of  different 
temperaments  and  habits  think  extravagant.  “ Why,”  says 
Horace,- “ docs  one  brother  like  to  lounge  in  the  forum,  to 
play  in  the  Campus,  and  to  anoint  himself  in  the  baths,  so 
well,  that  he  would  not  put  himself  out  of  his  way  for  all  the 
wealth  of  the  richest  plantations  of  the  East ; while  the  other 
toils  from  sunrise  to  sunset  for  the  purpose  of  increasing  his 
fortune ! ” Horace  attributes  the  diversity  to  the  influence 
of  the  Genius  and  the  natal  star : and  eighteen  hundred  years 


UTILITARIAN  THEORY  OF  GOVERNMENT. 


471 


have  taught  us  only  to  disguise  our  ignorance  beneath  a 
more  philosophical  language. 

We  think, therefore,  that  theWestminster  Keviewer,even 
if  we  admit  his  calculation  of  the  chances  to  be  right,  does 
not  make  out  his  case.  But  he  appears  to  us  to  miscalculate 
chances  more  grossly  than  any  person  who  ever  acted  or 
speculated  in  this  world.  It  is  for  the  happiness, says  he, 
‘‘of  a member  of  the  House  of  Commons  to  govern  well:  for 
he  never  can  tell  that  he  is  not  close  on  the  moment  when 
misgovernment  will  be  terribly  punished:  if  he  was  sure 
that  he  should  be  as  lucky  as  his  predecessors,  it  might  be 
for  his  happiness  to  misgovern;  but  he  is  not  sure.'’^  Cer- 
tainly a member  of  Parliament  is  not  sure  that  he  shall  not 
be  torn  to  pieces  by  a mob,  or  guillotined  by  a revolutionary 
tribunal  for  his  opposition  to  reform.  Nor  is  the  West- 
minster Keviewer  sure  that  he  shall  not  be  hanged  for  writ- 
ing in  favor  of  universal  suffrage.  We  may  have  demo- 
cratical  massacres.  We  may  also  have  aristocratical  pro- 
scriptions. It  is  not  very  likely,  thank  God,  that  we  should 
see  either.  But  the  radical,  we  think,  runs  as  much  danger 
as  the  aristocrat.  As  to  our  friend  the  Westminster  Ke- 
viewer, he,  it  must  be  owned,  has  as  good  a right  as  any 
man  on  his  side,  Antoni  gladios  contemnere,^^  But  take 
the  man  whose  votes,  ever  since  he  has  sate  in  Parliament, 
have  been  the  most  uniformly  bad,  and  oppose  him  to  the 
man  whose  votes  have  been  the  most  uniformly  good.  The 
Westminster  Reviewer  would  probably  select  Mr.  Sadler 
and  Mr.  Hume.  Now,  does  any  rational  man  think, — will 
the  Westminster  Reviewer  himself  say, — that  Mr.  Sadler 
runs  more  risk  of  coming  to  a miserable  end  on  account  of 
his  public  conduct  than  Mr.  Hume?  Mr.  Sadler  does  not 
know  that  he  is  not  close  on  the  moment  when  he  will  be 
made  an  example  of;  for  Mr.  Sadler  knows,  if  possible,  less 
about  the  future  than  about  the  past.  But  he  has  no  more 
reason  to  expect  that  he  shall  be  made  an  example  of  than 
to  expect  that  London  will  be  swallowed  up  by  an  earth- 
quake next  spring;  and  it  would  be  as  foolish  in  him  to 
act  on  the  former  supposition  as  on  the  latter.  There  is  a 
risk;  for  there  is  a risk  of  everything  which  does  not  involve 
a contradiction;  but  it  is  a risk  from  which  no  man  in 
his  wits  would  give  a shilling  to  be  insured.  Yet  our  West- 
minster Reviewer  tells  us  that  this  risk  alone,  apart  from  all 
considerations  of  religion,  honor,  or  benevolence,  would,  as 
a matter  of  mere  calculation,  induce  a wise  member  of  the 


472  macaxjlay’b  misckllankous  whitings. 

House  of  Coramons  to  refuse  any  emoluments  whicli  might 
be  offered  him  as  tlie  price  of  his  support  to  ])ernicious 
measures. 

We  have  hitherto  been  examining  cases  proposed  by  our 
opponent.  It  is  now  our  turn  to  propose  one  ; and  we  beg 
that  he  will  spare  no  wisdom  in' solving  it. 

A thief  is  condemned  to  be  hanged.  On  the  eve  of  the 
day  fixed  for  the  execution  a turnkey  enters  his  cell  and  tells 
him  that  all  is  safe,  that  he  has  only  to  slip  out,  that  his 
friends  are  waiting  in  the  neigliborhood  with  disguises,  and 
that  a passage  is  taken  for  him  in  an  American  packet. 
Now,  it  is  clearly  for  the  greatest  happiness  of  society  that 
the  thief  should  be  hanged  and  the  corrupt  turnkey  exposed 
and  punished.  Will  the  Westminster  Reviewer  tell  us  that 
it  is  for  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  thief  to  summon  the 
head  jailer  and  tell  the  whole  story?  Now,  either  it  is  foi 
the  greatest  happiness  of  a thief  to  be  hanged  or  it  is  not. 
If  it  is,  then  the  argument,  by  which  the  Westminster  Re 
viewer  attempts  to  prove  that  men  do  not  |Dromote  their  own 
happiness  by  thieving,  falls  to  the  ground.  If  it  is  not,  then 
there  are  men  whose  greatest  hapj^iness  is  at  variance  with 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  community. 

To  sum  up  our  arguments  shortly,  we  say  that  the 
“ greatest  happiness  principle,”  as  now  stated,  is  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  the  principle  stated  in  the  W estminster  Re 
view  three  months  ago. 

We  say  that,  if  the  “greatest  happiness  principle,”  as 
now  stated,  be  sound,  Mr.  Mill’s  Essay,  and  all  other  works 
concerning  Government  which,  like  that  Essay,  proceed  on 
the  supposition  that  individuals  may  have  an  interest  op- 
posed to  the  greatest  happiness  of  society,  are  fundamentally 
erroneous. 

We  say  that  those  who  hold  this  principle  to  be  sound 
must  be  prepared  to  maintain,  either  that  monarchs  and 
aristocracies  may  be  trusted  to  govern  the  community,  or 
else  that  men  cannot  be  trusted  to  follow  their  own  interest 
when  that  interest  is  demonstrated  to  them. 

We  say  that,  if  men  cannot  be  trusted  to  follow  their 
own  interest  when  that  interest  has  been  demonstrated  to 
them,  then  the  Utilitarian  arguments  in  favor  of  universal 
suffrage  are  good  for  nothing. 

We  say  that  the  “ greatest  happiness  principle”  lias  not 
been  proved  ; that  it  cannot  be  generally  proved ; that  even 
in  the  particular  cases  selected  by  the  Reviewer  it  is  not 


UTILITARIAN  THEORY  OF  GOVERNMENT. 


473 


clear  that  the  principle  is  true ; and  that  many  cases  might 
be  stated  in  which  the  common  sense  of  mankind  would  at 
once  ])ronounce  it  to  be  false. 

We  now  leave  the  Westminster  Reviewer  to  alter  and 
amend  his  “ magnificent  principle  ” as  he  thinks  best.  Un- 
limited, it  is  false.  Properly  limited,  it  will  be  barren.  The 
“ greatest  happiness  principle  ” of  the  1st  of  July,  as  far  as 
we  could  discern  its  meaning  through  a cloud  of  rodomontade, 
was  an  idle  truism.  The  “ greatest  happiness  principle 
of  the  1st  of  October  is,  in  the  phrase  of  the  American  news* 

f apers,  ‘‘  important  if  true.”  But  unhappily  it  is  not  true, 
t is  not  our  business  to  conjecture  what  new  maxim  is  to 
make  the  bones  of  sages  and  patriots  stir  on  the  1st  of  De- 
cember. We  can  only  say  that,  unless  it  be  something 
infinitely  more  ingenious  than  its  two  predecessors,  we  shall 
leave  it  unmolested.  The  Westminster  Reviewer  may,  if 
he  pleases,  indulge  himself  like  Sultan  Schahriar  with  es- 
pousing a rapid  succession  of  virgin  theories.  But  we 
must  beg  to  be  excused  from  playing  the  part  of  the  vizier 
who  regularly  attended  on  the  day  after  the  wedding  to 
strangle  the  new  Sultana. 

The  Westminster  Reviewer  charges  us  with  urging  it  as 
an  objection  to  the  ‘‘greatest  happiness  principle  ” that  “it 
is  included  in  the  Christian  morality.”  This  is  a mere  fiction 
of  his  own.  We  never  attacked  the  morality  of  the  Gospel. 
We  blamed  the  Utilitarians  for  claiming  the  credit  of  a 
discovery,  when  they  had  merely  stolen  that  morality,  and 
spoiled  it  in  the  stealing.  They  have  taken  the  precept  of 
Christ  and  left  the  motive ; and  they  demand  the  praise  of 
a most  wonderful  and  beneficial  invention,  when  all  that 
they  have  done  has  been  to  make  a most  useful  maxim  use- 
bss  by  separating  it  from  its  sanction.  On  religious  prin- 
ciples it  is  true  that  every  individual  will  best  promote  his 
own  happiness  by  promoting  the  happiness  of  others.  But 
if  religious  considerations  be  left  out  of  the  question  .'t  is 
not  true.  If  we  do  not  reason  on  the  supposition  of  a future 
state,  where  is  the  motive  ? If  we  do  reason  on  that  sup- 
position, where  is  the  discovery  ? 

The  Westminster  Reviewer  tells  us  that  “ we  wish  to  see 
the  science  of  Government  unsettled  because  we  see  no  pros- 
pect of  a settlement  which  accords  with  our  interests.”  His 
angry  eagerness  to  have  questions  settled  resembles  that  of 
a judge  in  one  of  Dryden’s  plays — the  Amphitryon,  we 
think — who  wishes  to  decide  a cause  after  hearing  only  one 


474 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


party,  and,  when  lie  has  been  at  last  compelled  to  iisten  wO  ^ 
the  statement  of  tlie  defendant.  Hies  into  a passion,  and 
exclaims,  ‘‘  There  now,  sir  ! See  what  you  have  done.  The 
case  was  quite  clear  a minute  ago  ; and  you  must  come  and 
])uzzle  it ! ” He  is  the  zealot  of  a sect.  We  are  searchers 
after  truth.  He  wishes  to  have  the  question  settled.  We 
wish  to  have  it  sifted  first.  The  querulous  manner  in  which 
we  have  been  blamed  for  attacking  Mr.  Mill’s  system,  and 
propounding  no  system  of  our  own,  reminds  us  of  the  horror 
with  which  that  shallow  dogmatist,  Epicurus,  the  worst 
parts  of  whose  nonsense  the  Utilitarians  have  attempted  to 
revive,  shrank  from  the  keen  and  searching  skepticism  of  the 
second  Academy. 

It  is  not  our  fault  that  an  experimental  science  of  vast 
extent  does  not  admit  of  being  settled  by  a short  demon- 
stration ; — that  the  subtilty  of  nature,  in  the  moral  as  in  the 
physical  world,  triumphs  over  the  subtilty  of  syllogism. 
The  quack,  who  declares  on  affidavit  that  by  using  his 
pills  and  attending  to  his  printed  directions,  hundreds 
who  had  been  dismissed  incurable  from  the  hospitals  have 
renewed  their  youth  like  the  eagles,  may,  perhaps,  think 
that  Sir  Henry  Halford,  when  he  feels  the  pulses  of  patients, 
inquires  about  their  symptoms,  and  prescribes  a different 
remedy  to  each,  is  unsettling  the  science  of  medicine  for  the 
sake  of  a fee. 

If,  in  the  course  of  this  controversy,  we  have  refrained 
from  expressing  any  opinion  respecting  the  jDolitical  institu-  • 
tions  of  England,  it  is  not  because  we  have  not  an  opinion 
or  because  we  shrink  from  avowing  it.  The  Utilitarians, 
indeed,  conscious  that  their  boasted  theory  of  government 
would  not  bear  investigation,  were  desirous  to  turn  the  dis- 
pute about  Mr.  Mill’s  Essay  into  a dispute  about  the  Whig 
party,  rotten  boroughs,  unpaid  magistrates,  and  ex-officio 
informations.  When  we  blamed  them  for  talking  nonsense, 
they  cried  out  that  they  were  insulted  for  being  reformers, 

« — ^just  as  poor  Ancient  Pistol  swore  that  the  scars  which  ho 
had  received  from  the  cudgel  of  Fluellen  were  got  in  the 
Gallia  wars.  We,  however,  did  not  think  it  desirable  to  mix 
up  political  questions,  about  which  the  public  mind  is  vio- 
lently agitated,-  with  a great  problem  in  moral  philosophy. 

Our  notions  about  Government  are  not,  however,  alto- 
gether unsettled.  We  have  an  opinion  about  parliamentary 
reform,  though  we  have  not  arrived  at  that  opinion  by  the 
royal  road  which  Mr.  Mill  has  opened  for  the  explorers  of 


Southey’s  colloquies. 


475 


f)olitical  science.  As  we  are  taking  leave,  probably  for  the 
ast  time,  of  this  controversy?  we  will  state  very  concisely 
what  our  doctrines  are.  On  some  future  occasion  we  may, 
perhaps,  explain  and  defend  them  at  length. 

Our  fervent  wish,  and  we  will  add  our  sanguine  hope,  is 
that  we  may  see  such  a reform  of  the  House  of  Commons  as 
may  render  its  votes  the  express  image  of  the  opinion  of  the 
middle  orders  of  Britain.  A pecuniary  qualification  we 
think  absolutely  necessary  ; and,  in  settling  its  amount,  our 
object  w^ould  be  to  draw  the  line  in  such  a manner  that 
every  decent  farmer  and  shopkeeper  might  possess  the  elec- 
tive franchise.  We  should  wish  to  see  an  end  j^ut  to  all  the 
advantages  which  particular  forms  of  property  possess  over 
other  forms,  and  particular  portions  of  property  over  other 
equal  portions.  And  this  would  content  us.  Such  a reform 
would,  according  to  Mr.  Mill,  establish  an  aristocracy  of 
wealth,  and  leave  the  community  without  protection  and 
exposed  to  all  the  evils  of  unbridled  power.  Most  willingly 
would  we  stake  the  Avhole  controversy  between  us  on  the 
success  of  the  experiment  which  we  propose. 


SOUTHEY’S  COLLOQUIES.  ♦ 

{Edinburgh  Review y January  1830.) 

It  would  be  scarcely  possible  for  a man  of  Mr.  Southey’s 
talents  and  acquirements  to  write  two  volumes  so  large  as 
those  before  us,  which  should  be  wholly  destitute  of  infor- 
mation and  amusement.  Yet  we  do  not  remember  to  have 
read  with  so  little  satisfaction  any  equal  quantity  of  matter 
written  by  any  man  of  real  abilities.  We  have,  for  some 
time  past,  observed  with  great  regret  the  strange  infatuation 
which  leads  the  Poet  Laureate  to  abandon  those  departments 
of  literature  in  which  he  might  excel,  and  to  lecture  the 
public  on  sciences  of  which  he  has  still  the  very  alphabet  to 
learn.  He  has  now,  we  think,  done  his  worst.  The  subject 
which  he  has  at  last  undertaken  to  treat  is  one  which  de- 
mands all  the  highest  intellectual  and  moral  qualities  of  a 

♦ Sir  Thomas  More ; or,  Colloquies  on  the.  Progress  and  Prospects  oj  Society 
By  ^bbrt  Southey,  Eb(j.,  r Poot  Laureate.  2 yols.  8to,  Loudon  ; 


476 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 


philosophical  statesruan,  an  understanding  at  once  compro  j| 
hensive  and  acute,  a heart  at  once  uj)right  and  charitable.  J 
Mr.  Southey  brings  to  the  task  two  faculties  which  were  ^ 
never,  we  believe,  vouchsafed  in  measure  so  copious  to  any  f 
human  being,  the  faculty  of  believing  without  a reason,  and  ■ ' 
the  faculty  of  hating  without  a provocation.  ' 

It  is,  indeed,  most  extraordinary,  that  a mind  like  Mr. 
Southey’s,  a mind  richly  endowed  in  many  respects  by 
nature,  and  highly  cultivated  by  study,  a mind  which  has 
exercised  considerable  influence  on  the  most  enlightened 
generation  of  the  most  enlightened  people  that  ever  existed, 
should  be  utterly  destitute  of  the  power  of  discerning  truth 
from  falsehood.  Yet  such  is  the  fact.  Government  is  to 
Mr.  Southey  one  of  the  fine  arts.  He  judges  of  a theory, 
of  a public  measure,  of  a religion  or  a political  party,  of  a 
peace  or  a war,  as  men  judge  of  a picture  or  a statute,  by 
the  effect  produced  on  his  imagination.  A chain  of  associa- 
tions is  to  him  what  a chain  of  reasonings  is  to  other  men  ; 
and  what  he  calls  his  opinions  are  in  fact  merely  his  tastes.  " 

Part  of  this  description  might  perhaps  apply  to  a much 
greater  man,  Mr.  Burke.  But  Mr.  Burke  assuredly  possessed 
an  understanding  admirably  fitted  for  the  investigation  of 
truth,  an  understanding  stronger  than  that  of  any  states- 
man, active  or  speculative,  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
stronger  than  everything,  except  his  own  fierce  and  ungov- 
ernable sensibility.  Hence  he  generally  chose  his  side  like 
a fanatic,  and  defended  it  like  a philosopher.  His  conduct 
on  the  most  important  occasions  of  his  life,  at  the  time  of 
the  impeachment  of  Hastings  for  example,  and  at  the  time 
of  the  French  Revolution,  seems  to  have  been  prompted  by 
those  feelings  and  motives  which  Mr.  Coleridge  has  so  hap-  * 
pily  described. 

Stormy  pity,  and  the  cherish’d  lure 

Of  pomp,  and  proud  precipitance  of  soul.** 

Hindostan,  with  its  vast  cities,  its  gorgeous  pagodas,  its 
infinite  swarms  of  dusky  population,  its  long-descended 
dynasties,  its  stately  etiquette,  excited  in  a mind  so  capacious, 

BO  imaginative,  and  so  susceptible,  the  most  intense  interest. 
The  peculiarities  of  the  costume,  of  the  manners,  and  of  the 
laws,  the  very  mystery  which  hung  over  the  language  and 
origin  of  the  people,  seized  his  imagination.  To  plead 
under  the  ancient  arches  of  Westminster  Hall,  in  the  name 
of  the  English  people,  at  the  bar  of  the  English  nobles,  for 


Southey’s  colloquies. 


477 


great  nations  and  kings  separated  from  him  by  half  the 
world,  seemed  to  him  the  height  of  human  glory.  Again, 
it  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  his  hostility  to  the  French 
Revolution  principally  arose  from  the  vexation  which  he 
felt  at  having  all  his  old  political  associations  disturbed,  at 
seeing  the  well  known  landmarks  of  states  obliterated,  and 
the  names  and  distinctions  with  which  the  history  of  Europe 
had  been  filled  for  ages  at  once  swej^t  away.  He  felt  like 
an  antiquary  whose  shield  had  been  scoured,  or  a connois- 
seur who  found  his  Titian  retouched.  But,  however  he 
came  by  an  opinion,  he  had  no  sooner  got  it  than  he  did  his 
best  to  make  out  a legitimate  title  to  it.  His  reason,  like  a 
spirit  in  the  service  of  an  enchanter,  though  spellbound, 
was  still  mighty.  It  did  whatever  work  his  passions  and 
liis  imagination  miglit  impose.  But  it  did  that  work,  how- 
ever arduous,  with  marvellous  dexterity  and  vigor.  His 
course  was  not  determined  by  argument ; but  he  could  de- 
fend the  wildest  course  by  arguments  more  plausible  than 
those  by  which  common  men  siq^port  opinions  which  they 
have  adopted  after  the  fullest  deliberation.  Reason  has 
scarcely  ever  displayed,  even  in  those  well  constituted 
minds  of  which  she  occupies  the  throne,  so  much  power 
and  energy  as  in  the  lowest  offices  of  that  imperial  servi- 
tude. 

Now  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Southey  reason  has  no  place  at 
all,  as  either  leader  or  follower,  as  either  sovereign  or  slave. 
He  does  not  seem  to  know  what  an  argument  is.  He  never 
uses  arguments  himself.  He  never  troubles  himself  to  an- 
swer the  arguments  of  his  opponents.  It  has  never  occurred 
to  him,  that  a man  ought  to  be  able  to  give  some  better  ac- 
count of  the  way  in  which  he  has  arrived  at  his  opinions  than 
merely  that  it  is  his  will  and  pleasure  to  hold  them.  It  has 
never  occurred  to  him  that  there  is  a difference  between  as- 
sertion and  demonstration,  that  a rumor  does  not  always 
prove  a fact,  that  a single  fact,  when  proved,  is  hardly  foundar 
tion  enough  for  a theory,  that  two  contradictory  proposi 
tions  cannot  be  undeniable  truths,  that  to  beg  the  question 
is  not  the  way  to  settle  it,  or  that  when  an  objection  is 
raised,  it  ought  to  be  met  with  something  more  convincing 
than  scoundrel  ” and  “ blockhead.  ” 

It  would  be  absurd  to  read  the  works  of  such  a writer 
for  political  instruction.  The  utmost  that  can  be  expected 
from  any  system  promulgated  by  him  is  that*  it  maybe  splen- 
did and  affecting,  that  it  may  suggest  sublime  and  pleasing 


1 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wRiTiNUb. 

images.  Ilis  scheme  of  pliilosophy  is  a mere  day-dream,  a 
poetical  creation,  like  the  Domdaniel  cavern,  the  Swerga, 
or  Padalon ; and  indeed  it  bears  no  inconsiderable  resem- 
blance to  those  gorgeous  visions.  Like  them,  it  has  some- 
thing of  invention,  grandeur,  and  brilliancy.  But,  like 
them,  it  is  grotesque  and  extravagant,  and  perpetually  vio- 
lates even  that  conventional  probability  which  is  essential 
tc  the  effect  of  works  of  art. 

The  warmest  admirers  of  Mr.  Soutliey  will  scarcely,  we 
think,  deny  that  his  success  lias  almost  always  borne  an  in- 
verse proportion  to  the  degree  in  which  his  undertakings 
have  required  a logical  head.  Ilis  poems,  taken  in  the  mass, 
stand  far  higher  than  his  prose  works.  His  official  Odes 
indeed,  among  which  the  Vision  of  Judgment  must  be 
classed,  are,  for  the  most  part,  worse  than  Pye’s  and  as  bad 
as  Cibber’s  ; nor  do  we  think  him  generally  happy  in  short 
pieces.  But  his  longer  poems,  though  full  of  faults,  are 
nevertheless  very  extraordinary  productions.  We  doubt 
greatly  wdiether  they  will  be  read  fifty  years  hence ; but 
that,  if  they  are  read,  they  will  be  admired,  we  have  no 
doubt  whatever. 

But,  though  in  general  we  prefer  Mr.  Southey’s  poetry 
to  his  prose,  we  must  make  one  exception.  The  Life  of 
Nelson  is,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  most  perfect  and  the  most 
delightful  of  his  works.  The  fact  is,  as  his  poems  most 
abundantly  prove,  that  he  is  by  no  means  so  skilful  in  de- 
signing as  in  filling  up.  It  was  therefore  an  advantage  to 
him  to  be  furnished  with  an  outline  of  characters  and  events, 
and  to  have  no  other  task  to  perform  than  that  of  touching 
the  cold  sketch  into  life.  No  writer,  perhaps,  ever  lived, 
whose  talents  so  precisely  qualified  him  to  write  the  history 
of  the  great  naval  warrior.  There  were  no  fine  riddles  of 
the  human  heart  to  read,  no  theories  to  propound,  no  hid- 
den causes  to  develope,  no  remote  consequences  to  predict. 
The  character  of  the  hero  lay  on  the  surface.  The  exploits 
were  brilliant  and  picturesque.  The  necessity  of  adhering 
to  the  real  course  of  events  saved  Mr.  Southey  from  those 
faults  which  deform  the  original  plan  of  almost  every  one 
of  his  poems,  and  which  even  his  innumerable  beauties  of 
detail  scarcely  redeem.  The  subject  did  not  require  the 
exercise  of  those  reasoning  powers  the  want  of  which  is  the 
blemish  of  his  prose.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  find,  in  all 
literary  history,  an  instance  of  a more  exnct  hit  between 
wind  and  water.  John  Wesley  and  the  Peninsular  War 


SOUTHEY'S  COLLOQUIES. 


479 


were  subjects  of  a very  different  kind,  subjects  which  re- 
quired all  the  qualities  of  a philosophic  historian.  In  Mr, 
Southey’s  works  on  these  subjects,  lie  has,  on  the  whole, 
failed.  Yet  there  are  charming  specimens  of  the  art  of  nar^ 
ration  in  both  of  them.  Tlie  Life  of  Wesley  will  probably 
live.  Defective  as  it  is,  it  contains  the  only  popular  account 
of  a most  remarkable  moral  revolution,  and  of  a man  whose 
eloquence  and  logical  acuteness  might  have  made  him  emi- 
nent in  literature,  whose  genius  for  government  was  not  in- 
ferior to  that  of  Richelieu,  and  who,  whatever  his  errors 
may  have  been,  devoted  all  his  powers,  in  defiance  of  oblo- 
quy and  derision,  to  what  he  sincerely  considered  as  the 
highest  good  of  his  species.  The  History  of  the  Peninsular 
War  is  already  dead  : indeed,  the  second  volume  was  dead- 
born.  The  glory  of  producing  an  imperishable  record  of 
that  great  conflict  seems  to  bo  reserved  for  Colonel  Napier. 

The  Book  of  the  Church  contains  some  stories  very 
prettily  told.  Tlic  rest  is  mere  rubbish.  The  adventure 
was  manifestly  one  which  could  be  achieved  only  by  a pro- 
found thinker,  and  one  in  which  even  a profound  thinker 
might  have  failed,  unless  his  passions  had  been  kept  under 
strict  control.  But  in  all  those  w^orks  in  which  Mr.  Southey 
has  completely  abandoned  narration,  and  has  undertaken  to 
argue  moral  and  political  questions,  his  failure  has  been 
comjilete  and  ignominious.  On  such  occasions  his  writings 
are  rescued  from  utter  contempt  and  derision  solely  by  the 
beauty  and  purity  of  the  English.  We  find,  we  confess,  so 
great  a charm  in  Mr.  Southey’s  style  that,  even  when  lie 
writes  nonsense,  we  generally  read  it  with  pleasure,  except 
indeed  when  he  tries  to  be  droll.  A more  insufferable  jester 
never  existed.  He  very  often  attempts  to  be  humorous, 
and  yet  we  do  not  remember  a single  occasion  on  which  he 
has  succeeded  farther  than  to  be  quaintly  and  flippantly 
dull.  In  one  of  his  works  he  tells  us  that  Bishop  Spratt 
was  very  properly  so  called,  inasmuch  as  he  was  a very  si  rail 
poet.  And  in  the  book  now  before  us  he  cannot  quote 
Francis  Bugg,  the  renegade  Quaker,  without  a remark  on 
his  unsavory  name.  A wise  man  might  talk  folly  like  this 
by  his  own  fireside  ; but  that  any  human  being,  after  having 
made  such  a joke,  should  write  it  down,  and  copy  it  out, 
and  transmit  it  to  the  printer,  and  correct  the  proof-sheets, 
and  send  it  forth  into  the  world,  is  enough  to  make  us 
ashamed  of  our  species. 

The  extraordinary  bitterness  of  spirit  which  Mr.  Southey 


480  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  'nviutings. 

manifests  towards  Ids  opponents  is,  no  doubt,  in  a great  meas- 
ure to  be  attributed  to  the  manner  in  whicli  he  forms  his 
opinions.  Differences  of  taste,  it  has  often  been  remarked, 
produce  greater  exasperation  than  differences  on  points  of 
science.  But  this  is  not  all.  A peculiar  austerity  marks 
almost  all  Mr.  Southey’s  judgments  of  men  and  actions. 
We  are  far  from  blaming  him  for  fixing  on  a high  standard 
of  morals,  and  for  applying  that  standard  to  every  case. 
But  rigor  ought  to  be  accompanied  by  discernment ; and  of 
discernment  Mr.  Southey  seems  to  be  utterly  destitute.  His 
mode  of  judging  is  monkish.  It  is  exactly  what  we  should 
expect  from  a stern  old  Benedictine,  who  had  been  preserved 
from  many  ordinary  frailties  by  the  restraints  of  his  situa- 
tion. No  man  out  of  a cloister  ever  wrote  about  love,  for 
example,  so  coldly  and  at  the  same  time  so  grossly.  His 
descriptions  of  it  are  just  what  we  should  hear  from  a re- 
cluse who  knew  the  passion  only  from  the  details  of  the 
confessional.  Almost  all  his  heroes  make  love  either  like 
Seraphim  or  like  cattle.  He  seems  to  have  no  notion  of 
anything  between  the  Platonic  passion  of  the  Glendoveer 
who  gazes  with  rapture  on  his  mistress’s  leprosy,  and  the 
brutal  appetite  of  Arvalan  and  Roderick.  In  Roderick,  in- 
deed, the  two  characters  are  united.  He  is  first  all  clay, 
and  then  all  spirit.  He  goes  forth  a Tarquin,  and  coihes 
back  too  ethereal  to  be  married.  The  only  love  scene,  as 
far  as  we  can  recollect,  in  Madoc,  consists  of  the  delicate 
attentions  which  a savage,  who  has  drunk  too  much  of  the 
Prince’s  excellent  metheglin,  offers  to  Goervyl.  It  would 
be  the  labor  of  a week  to  find,  in  all  the  vast  mass  of  Mr. 
Southey’s  poetry,  a single  passage  indicating  any  sympathy 
with  those  feelings  which  have  consecrated  the  shades  of 
Vaucluse  and  the  rocks  of  Meillerie. 

Indeed,  if  we  except  some  very  pleasing  images  of  pater- 
nal tenderness  and  filial  duty,  there  is  scarcely  anything  soft 
or  humane  in  Mr.  Southey’s  poetry.  What  theologians  call 
the  spiritual  sins  are  his  cardinal  virtues,  hatred,  pride,  and 
the  insatiable  thirst  of  vengeance.  These  passions  he  dis- 
guises under  the  name  of  duties ; he  purifies  them  from  the 
alloy  of  vulgar  interests ; he  ennobles  them  by  uniting  them 
with  energy,  fortitude,  and  a severe  sanctity  of  manners ; 
and  he  then  holds  them  up  to  the  admiration  of  mankind. 
This  is  the  spirit  of  Thalaba,  of  Ladurlad,  of  Adosinda,  of 
Roderick  after  his  conversion.  It  is  the  spirit  which,  in  all 
his  writings,  Mr.  Southey  appears  to  affect.  ‘‘I  do  well  to 


SOUTHEY'S  COLLOQUIES. 


48i 


lO  angry,”  seems  to  be  the  predominant  feeling  of  nis  mind. 
Almost  the  only  mark  of  charity  whicli  lie  vouchsafes  to  his 
opponents  is  to  pray  for  their  reformation ; and  this  he  does 
in  terms  not  unlike  those  in  which  we  can  imagine  a Portu- 
guese priest  interceding  with  Heaven  for  a Jew,  delivered 
over  to  the  secular  arm  after  a relapse. 

We  have  always  heard,  and  fully  believe,  that  Mr. 
Southey  is  a very  amiable  and  humane  man  ; nor  do  we  in- 
tend  to  apply  to  him  personally  any  of  the  remarks  which  we 
have  made  on  the  spirit  of  his  writings.  Such  are  the  ca- 
prices of  human  nature.  Even  Uncle  Toby  troubled  himself 
very  little  about  the  French  grenadiers  who  fell  on  the  glacis 
of  Namur.  And  Mr.  Southey,  when  he  takes  up  his  pen, 
changes  his  nature  as  much  as  Captain  Shandy,  when  he  girt 
on  his  sword.  The  only  opponents  to  whom  the  Laureate 
gives  quarter  are  those  in  whom  he  finds  something  of  his 
own  character  reflected.  He  seems  to  have  an  instinctive 
antipathy  for  calm,  moderate  men,  for  men  who  shun  ex- 
tremes, and  who  render  reasons.  He  has  treated  Mr.  Owen 
of  Lanark,  for  example,  with  infinitely  more  respect  than  he 
has  shown  to  Mr.  Hallam  or  to  Dr.  Lingard ; and  this  for 
no  reason  that  we  can  discover,  except  that  Mr.  Owen  is 
more  unreasonably  and  hopelessly  in  the  wrong  than  any 
speculator  of  our  time. 

Mr.  Southey’s  political  system  is  just  Avhat  wo  might  ex- 
pect from  a man  who  regards  politics,  not  as  matter  of  sci- 
ence, but  as  matter  of  taste  and  feeling.  All  his  schemes  of 
government  have  been  inconsistent  with  themselves.  In 
his  youth  h(3  was  a republican ; yet,  as  he  tells  us  in  his  pref- 
ace to  these  Colloquies,  he  was  even  then  opposed  to  the 
Catholic  Claims.  He  is  now  a violent  ultra-Tory.  Yet, 
while  he  maintains,  with  vehemence  approaching  to  ferocity, 
all  the  sterner  and  harsher  parts  of  the  Ultra-Tory  theory 
of  government,  the  baser  and  dirtier  part  of  that  theory 
disgusts  him.  Exclusion,  persecution,  severe  punishments 
for  libellers  and  demagogues,  proscri2:>tions,  massacres,  civil 
war,  if  necessary,  rather  than  any  concession  to  a discontented 
people ; these  are  the  measures  which  he  seems  inclined 
to  recommend.  A severe  and  gloomy  tyranny,  crushing  op- 
position, silencing  remonstrance,  drilling  the  minds  of  the 
people  into  unreasoning  obedience,  has  in  it  something  of 
grandeur  which  delights  his  imagination.  But  there  is 
nothing  fine  in  the  shabby  tricks  and  jobs  of  office ; and 
Mr.  Southey,  accordingly,  has  no  toleration  for  them.  When 
VoL.  I —31 


482  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

a Jacobin,  he  did  not  perceive  that  his  system  led  logically, 
and  would  have  led  })ractically,  to  the  removal  of  religious 
distinctions,  lie  now  commits  a similar  error,  lie  re- 
nounces the  abject  and  paltry  part  of  the  creed  of  his  party, 
without  perceiving  that  it  is  also  an  essential  part  of  'hat 
creed.  He  would  have  tyranny  and  purity  together ; though 
the  most  superficial  observation  might  have  shown  him  that 
there  can  be  no  tyranny  without  corruption. 

It  is  high  time,  however,  that  we  should  proceed  to  the 
consideration  of  the  work  which  is  our  more  immediate  sub- 
ject, and  which,  indeed,  illustrates  in  almost  every  page  our 
general  remarks  on  Mr.  Southey’s  writings.  In  the  preface, 
vve  are  informed  tliat  the  author,  notwithstanding  rome 
statements  to  the  contrary,  was  always  opposed  to  the  Cath- 
olic Claims.  We  fully  believe  this;  both  because  we  are 
sure  that  Mr.  Southey  is  incapable  of  publishing  a deliber- 
ate falseh('.od,  and  because  his  assertion  is  in  itself  probable. 
We  should  have  expected  that,  even  in  his  wildest  parox- 
isms of  democratic  enthusiasm,  Mr.  Southey  would  have 
felt  no  wish  to  see  a simple  remedy  applied  to  a great  prac- 
tical evil.  We  should  have  expected  that,  the  only  measure 
which  all  the  great  statesmen  of  two  generations  have  agreed 
with  each  other  in  supporting  would  be  the  only  measure 
which  Mr.  Southey  would  have  agreed  with  himself  in  op- 
|)Osing.  He  has  passed  from  one  extreme  of  political  opin- 
ion to  another,  as  Satan  in  Milton  went  round  the  globe, 
contriving  constantly  to  ‘‘  ride  with  darkness.”  Wherever 
the  thickest  shadow  of  the  night  may  at  any  moment  chance 
to  fall,  there  is  Mr.  Southey.  It  is  not  everybody  who 
could  have  so  dexterously  avoided  blundering  on  the  day- 
light in  the  course  of  a journey  to  the  antipodes. 

Mr.  Southey  has  not  been  fortunate  in  the  plan  of  any 
of  his  fictitious  narratives.  But  he  has  never  failed  so  con- 
spicuously as  in  the  work  before  us;  except,  indeed,  in  the 
wretched  Vision  of  J udgment.  In  November,  1817,  it  seema 
the  Laureate  was  sitting  over  his  newspaper,  and  meditating 
about  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte.  An  elderly  per- 
son of  very  dignified  aspect  makes  his  appearance,  an- 
nounces himself  as  a stranger  from  a distant  country,  and 
apologizes  very  politely  for  not  having  provided  himself  with 
letVers  of  introduction.  Mr.  Southey  supposes  his  visitor  to  be 
some  American  gentleman  who  has  come  to  see  the  lakes 
and  lake-poets,  and  accordingly  proceeds  to  perform,  with 
that  grace,  which  only  long  j>ractice  can  give,  all  the  duties 


bouthey’s  colloquies. 


483 


which  authors  owe  to  starers.  He  assures  liis  guest  that 
fomc  of  the  most  agreeable  visits  which  he  has  received 
have  been  from  Americans,  and  that  he  knows  men  among 
them  w^hose  talents  and  virtues  would  do  honor  to  any 
iountry.  In  passing  we  may  observe,  to  the  honor  of  Mr. 
Southey,  that,  though  he  evidently  has  no  liking  for  the 
American  institutions,  he  never  speaks  of  the  people  of  the 
United  States  with  that  pitiful  affectation  of  contempt  by 
which  some  members  of  his  party  have  done  more  than 
wars  or  tariffs  can  do  to  excite  mutual  enmity  between  two 
communities  formed  for  mutual  friendship.  Great  as  the 
faults  of  his  mind  are,  paltry  spite  like  this  has  no  place  in 
it.  Indeed  it  is  scarcely  conceivable  that  a man  of  his  sen- 
sibility and  his  imagination  should  look  without  pleasure 
and  national  pride  on  the  vigorous  and  splendid  youth  of  a 
great  people,  whose  veins  are  filled  with  our  blood,  whose 
minds  are  nourished  with  our  literature,  and  on  whom  is  en- 
tailed the  rich  inheritance  of  our  civilization,  our  freedom, 
and  our  glory. 

But  we  must  return  to  Mr.  Southey’s  study  at  Keswick. 
The  visitor  informs  the  hospitable  poet  that  he  is  not  an 
American  but  a spirit.  Mr.  Southey,  with  more  frankness 
than  civility,  tells  him  that  he  is  a very  queer  one.  The 
stranger  holds  out  his  hand.  It  has  neither  weight  nor  sub- 
stance. Mr.  Southey  upon  this  becomes  more  serious  ; his 
hair  stands  on  end ; and  he  adjures  the  spectre  to  tell  him 
what  he  is,  and  why  he  comes.  The  ghost  turns  out  to  be 
Sir  Thomas  More.  The  traces  of  martyrdom,  it  seems,  are 
worn  in  the  other  world,  as  stars  and  ribands  are  worn  in 
this.  Sir  Thomas  shows  the  poet  a red  streak  round  his 
neck,  brighter  than  a ruby,  anct  informs  him  that  Cranmer 
wears  a suit  of  flames  in  paradise,  the  right  hand  glove,  we 
suppose,  of  peculiar  brilliancy. 

Sir  Thomas  pays  but  a short  visit  on  this  occasion,  but 
promises  to  cultivate  the  new  acquaintance  which  he  has 
formed,  and,  after  begging  that  his  visit  may  be  kept  se- 
cret from  Mrs.  Southey,  vanishes  into  air. 

The  rest  of  the  book  consists  of  conversations  between 
Mr.  Southey  and  the  spirit  about  trade,  cuirency.  Catholic 
emancipation,  periodical  literature,  female  nunneries,  butch- 
ers, snuff,  book-stalls,  and  a hundred  other  subjects.  Mr. 
Soutliey  very  hospitably  takes  an  opportunity  to  escort  the 
ghost  round  the  lakes,  and  directs  his  attention  to  the  most 
beautiful  points  of  view.  Why  a spirit  was  to  be  evoked 


184 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  aviutingb. 


for  the  purpose  of  talking  over  such  matters  and  seeing 
such  siglits,  why  the  vicar  of  tlie  j>arish,  a blue-stocking 
from  London,  or  an  American,  such  as  Mr.  Southey  at  first 
8Uj)posed  the  aerial  visitor  to  be,  might  not  have  done  as 
Avell,  Ave  are  unable  to  conceive.  Sir  Thomas  tells  Mr. 
Southey  nothing  about  future  events,  and  indeed  absolutely 
disclaims  the  gift  of  prescience.  He  has  learned  to  talk 
modern  English.  He  has  read  all  the  new  publications,  and 
loves  a jest  as  Avell  as  Avhen  he  jested  Avith  the  executioner, 
though  Ave  cannot  say  that  the  (piality  of  his  Avit  has  materi- 
ally improved  in  Paradise.  His  powers  of  reasoning,  too, 
are  by  no  means  in  as  great  Augor  as  Avhen  he  sate  on  the 
Avool-sack ; and  though  he  boasts  that  he  is  “ divested  of  all 
those  passions  Avhich  cloud  tlie  intellects  and  Avarp  the  un- 
derstandings of  men,”  Ave  think  him,  avo  must  confess,  far 
less  stoical  than  formerly.  As  to  reA^elations,  he  tells  Mr. 
Southey  at  the  outset  to  expect  none  from  him.  The  Lau- 
reate expresses  some  doubts,  Avhich  assuredly  Avill  not  raise 
him  in  the  opinion  of  our  modern  millennarians,  as  to  the 
divine  authority  of  the  Apocalypse.  But  the  ghost  pre- 
serAms  an  impenetrable  silence.  As  far  as  Ave  remember, 
only  one  hint  about  the  employment  of  disembodied  spirits 
escapes  him.  He  encourages  Mr.  Southey  to  hope  that  there 
is  a Paradise  Press,  at  Avhich  all  the  A^aluable  publications  of 
Mr.  Murray  and  Mr.  Colburn  are  reprinted  as  regularly  as 
at  Philadelphia;  and  delicately  insinuates  that  Thalaba 
and  the  Curse  of  Kehama  are  among  the  number.  What  a 
contrast  does  this  absurd  fiction  present  to  those  charming 
narratiA^es  Avhich  Plato  and  Cicero  prefixed  to  their  dia- 
logues ! What  cost  in  machinery,  yet  Avhat  poAmrty  of  ef- 
fect ! A ghost  brought  in  to  say  Avhat  any  man  might  have 
said!  The  glorified  spirit  of  a great  statesman  and  philoso- 
pher dawdling,  like  a bilious  old  nabob  at  a Avatering  place, 
over  quarterly  revieAVS  and  novels,  dropping  in  to  pay  long 
calls,  making  excursions  in  search  of  the  picturesque ! The 
scene  of  St.  George  and  St.  Dennis  in  the  Pucelle  is  hardly 
more  ridiculous.  We  knoAV  A\diat  Voltaire  meant.  Nobody, 
hoAVCAmr,  can  suppose  that  Mr.  Southey  means  to  make  game 
of  the  mysteries  of  a higher  state  of  existence.  The  fact  is 
that,  m the  Avork  before  us,  in  the  Vision  of  Judgment,  and 
in  some  of  his  other  pieces,  his  mode  of  treating  the  most 
solemn  subjects  differs  from  that  of  open  scoffers  only  as  the 
extravagant  representations  of  sacred  persons  and  things  in 
some  grotesque  Italian  paintings  differ  from  the  caricatures 


485 


Southey’s  colloquies. 

which  Carlile  exposes  in  the  front  of  his  shop.  Wo  Interpret 
the  particular  act  by  the  general  character.  What  in  the 
window  of  a convicted  blasphemer  we  call  blasphemous,  we 
call  only  absurd  and  ill-judged  in  an  altar-piece. 

We  now  come  to  the  conversations  Avhich  pass  between 
Mr.  Southey  and  Sir  Thomas  More,  or  rather  between  two 
Southeys,  equally  eloquent,  equally  angry,  equally  unreason- 
able, and  equally  given  to  talking  about  what  they  do  not 
understand.*  Perhaps  we  could  not  select  a better  instance 
of  the  spirit  which  pervades  the  wliole  book  than  the  pas- 
sages in  which  Mr.  Southey  gives  his  opinion  of  the  manu- 
facturing system.  There  is  nothing  which  he  hates  so  bit- 
terly. It  is,  according  to  him,  a system  more  tyrannical 
than  that  of  the  feudal  ages,  a system  of  actual  servi. 
tilde,  a system  which  destroys  the  bodies  and  degrades  the 
minds  of  those  who  are  engaged  in  it.  He  expresses  a hope 
that  the  competition  of  other  nations  may  drive  us  out  of 
the  field ; that  our  foreign  trade  may  decline  ; and  that  we 
may  thus  enjoy  a restoration  of  national  sanity  and  strength. 
But  he  seems  to  think  that  the  extermination  of  the  whole 
manufacturing  population  would  be  a blessing,  if  the  evil 
could  be  removed  in  no  other  way. 

Mr.  Southey  does  not  bring  forward  a single  fact  in  sup- 
port of  these  views ; and,  as  it  seems  to  us,  thei'e  are  facts 
which  lead  to  a very  different  conclusion.  In  the  first 
place,  the  poor-rate  is  very  decidedly  lower  in  the  manufac- 
turing than  in  the  agricultural  districts.  If  Mr.  Southey 
will  look  over  the  Parliamentary  returns  on  this  subject,  he 
will  find  that  the  amount  of  parochial  relief  required  by  the 
laborers  in  the  different  counties  of  England  is  almost  ex- 
actly in  inverse  proportion  to  the  degree  in  which  the  man- 
ufacturing system  has  been  introduced  into  those  counties. 
The  returns  for  the  years  ending  in  March  1825,  and  in 
March  1828,  are  now  before  us.  In  the  former  year  we  find 
the  poor-rate  highest  in  Sussex,  about  twenty  shillings  to 
every  inhabitant.  Then  come  Buckinghamshire,  Essex, 
Suffolk,  Bedfordshire,  Huntingdonshire,  Kent,  and  Norfolk. 
In  all  these  the  rate  is  above  fifteen  shillings  a head.  We 
will  not  go  through  the  whole.  Even  in  Westmoreland  and 
the  North  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  the  rate  is  at  more  than 
eight  shillings.  In  Cumberland  and  Monmouthshire,  the 
most  fortunate  of  all  the  agricultural  districts,  it  is  at  six 

* A passage  in  which  some  expressions  used  by  Mr.  Southey  were  misrepre 
eentedi  certainly  without  any  unfair  intention,  has  been  here  omitted* 


48G 


MACAUJ.AY  S AIISCl^LI.ANEOUS  AVKITINGS. 

sliillings.  But  in  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  it  is  as  lo^v 
as  five  shillings  ; and  when  we  come  to  Lancashire,  we  find 
it  at  four  shillings,  one  fifth  of  what  it  is  in  Sussex.  The 
returns  of  the  year  ending  in  March  1828  are  a little,  and 
but  a little,  more  unfavorable  to  the  manufacturing  districts. 
Lancashire,  even  in  that  season  of  distress,  required  a smaller 
poor-rate  than  any  other  district,  and  little  more  than  one 
fourth  of  the  poor-rate  raised  in  Sussex.  Cumberland 
alone,  of  the  agricultural  districts,  was  as  well  off  as  the 
West  Riding  of  Yorkshire.  These  facts  seem  to  indicate 
that  the  manufacturer  is  both  in  a more  comfortable  and  in 
a less  dependent  situation  than  the  agricultural  laborer. 

As  to  the  effect  of  the  manufacturing  system  on  the 
bodily  health,  we  must  beg  leave  to  estimate  it  by  a stand- 
ard far  too  low  and  vulgar  for  a mind  so  imaginative  as 
that  of  Mr.  Southey,  the  proportion  of  births  and  deaths. 
We  know  that,  during  the  growth  of  this  atrocious  system, 
this  new  misery,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Mr.  Southey,  this  new 
enormity,  this  birth  of  a portentous  age,  this  pest,  wLich  no 
man  can  approve  wdiose  heart  is  not  seared  or  whose  under- 
standing has  not  been  darkened,  there  has  been  a great 
diminution  of  mortality,  and  that  this  diminution  has  been 
greater  in  the  manufacturing  towns  than  anywhere  else. 
The  mortality  still  is,  as  it  always  was,  greater  in  towms  than 
in  the  country.  But  the  difference  has  diminished  in  an 
extraordinary  degree.  There  is  the  best  reason  to  believe 
that  the  annual  mortality  of  Manchester,  about  the  middle 
of  the  last  century,  w\as  one  in  twenty-eight.  It  is  now 
reckoned  at  one  in  forty-five.  In  Glasgow  and  Leeds  a 
similar  improvement  has  taken  place.  Nay,  the  rate  of 
mortality  in  those  three  great  capitals  of  the  manufacturing 
districts  is  now  considerably  less  than  it  w^as,  fifty  years  ago, 
over  England  and  Wales  taken  together,  open  country  and 
all.  We  might  wdth  some  plausibility  maintain  that  the 
people  live  longer  because  they  are  better  fed,  better  lodged, 
better  clothed,  and  better  attended  in  sickness,  and  that 
these  improvements  are  owing  to  that  increase  of  national 
wealth  w^hich  the  manufacturing  system  has  produced. 

Much  more  might  be  said  on  the  subject.  But  to  what 
end  ? It  is  not  from  bills  of  mortality  and  statistical  tables 
that  Mr.  Southey  has  learned  his  political  creed.  He  can- 
not stoop  to  study  the  history  of  the  system  which  he  abuses, 
to  strike  the  balance  betw^een  the  good  and  evil  which  it 
has  produced,  to  compare  district  with  district,  or  goner- 


Southey’s  colloquies. 


487 


ation  with  generation.  We  will  give  his  own  reason  for  his 
opinion,  the  only  reason  which  he  gives  for  it,  in  his  own 
words : — 

“We  remained  awhile  in  silence  lookin"  upon  the  assemblage  of  dwell- 
ings below.  Here,  and  in  the  adjoining  hamlet  of  Millbeck,  the  effects  of 
manufactures  and  of  agriculture  may  be  seen  and  compared.  The  old  cot- 
tages are  such  as  the  poet  and  tlie  painter  equally  delight  in  beholding. 
Substantially  built  of  the  native  stone  without  mortar,  dirtied  with  no  white 
lime,  and  their  long  low  roofs  covered  with  slate,  if  they  had  been  raised 
by  the  magic  of  some  indigenous  Amphion’s  music,  the  materials  could  not 
have  adjusted  tliemselves  more  beautifully  in  accord  with  the  surrounding 
scene  ; and  time  has  still  further  harmonized  them  with  weather-stains, 
lichens,  and  moss,  short  grasses,  and  short  fern,  and  stone-plants  of  various 
kinds.  The  ornamented  chimneys,  round  or  square,  less  adorned  than 
those  'vrhich,  like  little  turrets,  crest  the  houses  of  the  Portuguese  peasantry  ; 
and  yet  not  less  happily  suited  to  their  place,  the  hedge  of  dipt  box  beneath 
the  windows,  the  rose-bushes  beside  the  door,  tlie  little  patch  of  flower- 
ground,  with  its  tall  holly-hocks  in  front  ; the  garden  beside,  the  bee-hives, 
and  the  orchard  with  its  banlv  of  daffodils  and  snow-drops,  the  earliest  and 
the  profusest  in  these  parts,  indicate  in  the  owners  some  portion  of  ease  and 
leisure,  some  regard  to  neatness  and  comfort,  some  sense  of  mtural,  and 
innocent,  and  healthful  enjoyment.  Tlie  new  cottages  of  the  manufacturers 
are  upon  the  manufacturing  pattern — naked,  and  in  a row. 

“ How  is  it,”  said  I,  “ that  everything  which  is  connected  with  manu- 
factures presents  such  features  of  unqualified  deformity  ? From  the  largest 
of  Mammon’s  temples  down  to  the  poorest  hovel  in  which  his  helotry  are 
stalled,  these  edifices  have  all  one  character.  Time  will  not  mellow  them  ; 
nature  will  neither  clotlie  nor  conceal  them  ; and  they  will  remain  always 
as  offensive  to  the  eye  as  to  the  mind.” 

Here  is  wisdom.  Here  are  the  principles  on  which 
nations  are  to  be  governed.  Rose-bushes  and  poor-rates 
rather  than  steam-engines  and  independence.  Mortality 
and  cottages  with  weatlier  stains,  rather  than  health  and 
long  life  with  edifices  which  time  cannot  mellow.  We  are 
told  that  our  age  has  invented  atrocities  beyond  the  imag- 
ination of  our  fathers ; tliat  society  has  been  brought  into  a 
state  compared  with  winch  extermination  would  be  a bless- 
ing ; and  all  because  the  dwellings  of  cotton-spinners  are 
naked  and  rectangular.  Mr.  Southey  has  found  out  a way, 
he  tells  us,  in  which  the  effects  of  manufactures  and  agri- 
culture may  be  compared.  And  what  is  this  way?  To 
stand  on  a hill,  to  look  at  a cottage  and  a factory,  and  to 
sec  which  is  the  prettier.  Does  Mr.  Southey  think  that 
the  body  of  the  English  peasantry  live,  or  ever  lived,  in 
substantial  or  ornamented  cottages  with  box-hedges,  flower- 
gardens,  bee-hives,  and  orchards  ? If  not,  what  is  his  paral- 
lel worth?  We  despise  those  mock  philosophers,  who 
think  that  they  serve  the  cause  of  science  by  depreciating 
literature  and  the  fine  arts.  But  if  any  thing  could  excuse 
their  narrowness  of  mind  it  would  be  such  a book  as  this. 


488  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wuiriNas. 

It  is  not  strange  that,  when  one  enthusiast  makcfl  the,  pic- 
turesque the  test  of  political  good,  anotlier  should  feel  in- 
clined to  proscribe  altogether  the  pleasures  of  taste  and 
imagination. 

Tims  it  is  that  Mr.  Southey  reasons  about  matters  with 
which  he  thinks  himself  perfectly  conversant.  We  cannot, 
therefore,  be  sur])rised  to  find  that  he  commits  extraordinary 
blunders  when  he  writes  on  points  of  which  he  acknowl- 
edges himself  to  be  ignorant.  He  confesses  that  he  is  nc»t 
versed  in  political  economy,  and  that  he  has  neither  liking 
nor  aptitude  for  it ; and  he  then  proceeds  to  read  the  public 
a lecture  concerning  it  which  fully  bears  out  his  confession. 

“ All  wealth,”  says  Sir  Thomas  More,  “ in  former  times 
was  tangible.  It  consisted  in  land,  money,  or  chattels, 
which  were  either  of  real  or  conventional  value.” 

Montesinos,  as  Mr.  Southey  somewhat  affectedly  calls 
himself,  answers  thus  : — 

“Jewels,  for  example,  and  pictures,  as  in  Holland, 
where  indeed  at  one  time  tulip  bulbs  answered  the  same 
purpose.” 

“ That  bubble,”  says  Sir  Thomas,  “ was  one  of  those 
contagious  insanities  to  which  communities  are  subject.  All 
wealth  was  .real,  till  the  extent  of  commerce  rendered  a 
paper  currency  necessary ; which  differed  from  precious 
stones  and  pictures  in  this  important  j^oint,  that  there  was 
no  limit  to  its  production.” 

“ We  regard  it,”  says  Montesinos,  “as  the  representa- 
tive of  real  wealth ; and,  therefore,  limited  always  to  the 
amount  of  what  it  represents  ” 

“ Pursue  that  notion,”  answers  the  ghost,  “ and  you  will 
oe  in  the  dark  presently.  Your  pnwincial  bank-notes, 
* which  constitute  almost  wholly  the  circulating  medium  of 
certain  districts,  pass  current  to-day.  To-morrow  tidings 
may  come  that  the  house  which  issued  them  has  stopped 
payment,  and  what  do  they  represent  then  ? You  will  find 
them  the  shadow  of  a shade.” 

W e scarcely  know  at  which  end  to  begin  to  disentangle 
this  knot  of  absurdities.  We  might  ask,  why  it  should  be 
a greater  proof  of  insanity  in  men  to  set  a high  value  on 
rare  tulips  than  on  rare  stones,  which  are  neither  more  use- 
ful nor  more  beautiful  ? We  might  ask  how  it  can  be  said 
that  there  is  no  limit  to  the  production  of  paper  money, 
when  a man  is  hanged  if  he  issues  any  in  the  name  of  an 
other,  and  is  forced  to  casli  what  he  issues  in  his  own?  But 


SOUTHEY’S  COLLOQUIES. 


489 


Mr.  Southey’s  error  lies  deeper  still.  “All  wealth,”  says 
he,  “ was  tangible  and  real  till  paper  currency  Avas  intro- 
duced.” Noay,  was  there  ever,  since  men  emerged  from  a 
state  of  utter  barbarism,  an  age  in  Avhich  there  Avere  no 
debts  ? Is  not  a debt,  AAhile  the  solvency  of  the  debtor  is 
undoubted,  always  reckoned  as  part  of  the  Avealth  of  the 
creditor?  Yet  is  it  tangible  and  real  Avealth  ? Does  it 
cease  to  be  wealth,  because  there  is  the  security  of  a Avrit- 
ten  acknowledgment  for  it?  And  A\diat  else  is  paper  cur- 
rency ? Did  Mr.  Southey  ever  read  a bank-note  ? If  he 
did,  he  would  see  that  it  is  a Avritten  acknoAvledgment  of  a 
debt,  and  a promise  to  pay  that  debt.  The  promise  may  be 
violated:  the  debt  may  remain  unpaid:  those* to  Avhom  it 
Avas  due  may  suffer : but  this  is  a risk  not  confined  to  cases 
of  paper  currency  : it  is  a risk  inseparable  from  the  rela- 
tion of  debtor  and  creditor.  Every  man  A\dio  sells  goods 
for  anything  but  ready  money  runs  the  risk  of  finding  that 
AA^hat  he  considered  as  part  of  his  Avealth  one  day  is  nothing 
at  all  the  next  day.  Mr.  Southey  refers  to  the  picture-gal- 
leries of  Holland.  The  pictures  Avere  undoubtedly  real  and 
tangible  possessions.  But  surely  it  might  happen  that  a 
burgomaster  might  OAve  a picture-dealer  a thousand  guilders 
for  a Teniers.  What  in  this  case  corresponds  to  our  paper 
money  is  not  the  picture,  Avdiich  is  tangible,  but  the  claim 
of  the  picture-dealer  on  his  customer  for  the  price  of  the 
picture;  and  this  claim  is  not  tangible.  Noav,  Avould  not 
the  picture-dealer  consider  this  claim  as  part  of  his  Avealth  ? 
Would  not  a tradesman  Avho  kneAv  of  the  claim  gh^e  credit 
to  the  picture-dealer  the  more  readily  on  account  of  the 
claim?  The  burgomaster  might  be  ruined.  If  so,  would 
not  those  consequences  folloAV  which,  as  Mr.  Southey  tells 
us,  Avere  never  heard  of  till  paper  money  came  into  use  ? 
Yesterday  this  claim  was  worth  a thousand  guilders.  To- 
day what  is  it  ? The  shadow  of  a shade. 

It  is  true  that,  the  more  readily  claims  of  this  sort  are 
transferred  from  hand  to  hand,  the  more  extensive  will  be 
the  injury  produced  by  a single  failure.  The  laws  of  all 
nations  sanction,  in  certain  cases,  the  transfer  of  rights  not 
yet  reduced  into  possession.  Mr.  Southey  Avould  scarcely 
wish,  we  should  think,  that  all  indorsements  of  bills  and 
notes  should  be  declared  invalid.  Yet  even  if  this  were 
done,  the  transfer  of  claims  Avould  imperceptibly  take  place, 
to  a very  great  extent.  When  the  baker  trusts  the  butcher, 
for  example,  he  is  in  fact,  though  not  in  form,  trusting  the 


490 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


butclicr’s  customers.  A man  wlio  owes  large  bills  to  trades' 
men,  and  fails  to  ]>ay  them,  almost  always  j)roduces  distresH 
through  a very  wide  circle  of  people  with  whom  he  never 
dealt. 

In  short,  what  Mr.  Southey  takes  for  a difference  in  kind 
is  only  a difference  of  form  and  degree.  In  every  society 
men  have  claims  on  the  j^roperty  of  others.  In  every  so- 
ciety there  is  a possibility  that  some  debtors  may  not  bo 
able  to  fulfil  their  obligations.  In  every  society,  therefore, 
there  is  wealth  which  is  not  tangible,  and  which  may  become 
the  shadow  of  a shade. 

Mr.  Southey  then  proceeds  to  a dissertation  on  the  na- 
tional debt,  which  he  considers  in  a new  and  most  consola- 
tory light,  as  a clear  addition  to  the  income  of  the  country. 

“You  can  understand,”  says  Sir  Thomas,  “that  it  con- 
stitutes a great  part  of  the  national  wealth.” 

“ So  large  a part,”  answers  Montesinos,  “that  the  interest 
amounted,  during  the  prosperous  time  of  agriculture,  to  as 
much  as  the  rental  of  all  the  land  in  Great  Britain ; and  at 
present  to  the  rental  of  all  lands,  all  houses,  and  all  other 
fixed  property  put  together.” 

The  Ghost  and  the  Laureate  agree  that  it  is  very  desir- 
able that  there  should  be  so  secure  and  advantageous  a de- 
posit for  wealth  as  the  funds  afford.  Sir  Thomas  then  pro- 
ceeds : — 

“ Another  and  far  more  momentous  benefit  must  not  be 
overlooked ; the  expenditure  of  an  annual  interest,  equal- 
ling, as  you  have  stated,  the  present  rental  of  all  fixed 
property.” 

“That  expenditure,”  quoth  Montesinos,  “gives  employ- 
ment to  half  the  industry  in  the  kingdom,  and  feeds  half 
the  mouths.  Take,  indeed,  the  weight  of  the  national  debt 
from  this  great  and  complicated  social  machine,  and  tie 
wheels  must  stop.” 

From  this  passage  we  should  have  been  inclined  to  think 
that  Mr.  Southey  supposes  the  dividends  to  be  a free  gift 
periodically  sent  down  from  heaven  to  the  fundholders,  as 
quails  and  manna  were  sent  to  the  Israelites ; were  it  not 
that  he  has  vouchsafed,  in  the  following  question  and 
answer,  to  give  the  public  some  information,  which,  we  be^ 
lieve,  was  very  little  needed. 

“Whence  comes  the  interest?”  says  Sir  Thomas. 

“ It  is  raised,”  answers  Montesinos,  “ by  taxation.” 

Now,  has  Mr*  Southey  ever  aonsUJereti  what  would  b« 


flout colloquies. 


49i 


done  with  tins  sum  if  it  were  not  paid  as  interest  to  tlie  na» 
tional  creditor  ? If  he  would  think  over  tliis  matter  fora 
sliort  time,  we  suspect  that  tlie  ‘‘momentous  benefit”  of 
which  he  talks  would  appear  to  him  to  shrink  strangely"  in 
amount.  A fundholder,  we  will  suppose,  spends  dividends 
amounting  to  five  hundred  ]3ounds  a year ; and  his  ten 
nearest  neighbors  pay  fifty  pounds  each  to  the  tax-gatherer, 
for  the  ]nirj)ose  of  discharging  the  interest  of  the  national 
debt.  If  the  debt  were  Aviped  out,  a measure,  be  it  under- 
stood, which  we  by  no  means  recommend,  the  fundholder 
would  cease  to  spend  his  five  hundred  pounds  a year.  He 
would  no  longer  give  employment  to  industry,  or  put  food 
into  the  mouths  of  laborers.  This  Mr.  Southey  thinks  a 
fearful  evil.  But  is  there  no  mitigating  circumstances  ? 
Each  of  the  ten  neighbors  of  our  fundholder  has  fifty  pounds 
a year  more  than  formerly.  Each  of  them  will,  as  it  seems 
to  our  feeble  understandings,  employ  more  industry  and 
feed  more  mouths  than  formerly.  The  sum  is  exactly  the 
same.  It  is  in  different  hands.  But  on  wdiat  grounds  docs 
Mr.  Southey  call  upon  us  to  believe  that  it  is  in  the  hands 
of  men  who  will  spend  it  less  liberally  or  less  judiciously? 
He  seems  to  think  that  nobody  but  a fundholder  can  em- 
ploy the  poor ; that,  if  a tax  is  remitted,  those  who  formerly 
used  to  pay  it  proceed  immediately  to  dig  holes  in  the  earth, 
and  to  bury  the  sum  Avhich  the  government  had  been  ac- 
customed to  take  ; that  no  money  can  set  industry  in  mo- 
tion till  such  money  has  been  taken  by  the  tax-gatherer  out 
of  one  man’s  pocket  ana  put  into  another  man’s  pocket. 
We  really  wish  that  Mr.  Southey  would  try  to  prove  this 
principle,  which  is  indeed  the  foundation  of  his  whole  theory 
of  finance : for  we  think  it  right  to  hint  to  him  that  our 
hard-hearted  and  unimaginative  generation  will  expect  some 
more  satisfactory  reason  than  the  only  one  with  which  he 
his  yet  favored  it,  namely,  a similitude  touching  evapora- 
t:on  and  dew. 

Both  the  theory  and  the  illustration,  indeed,  are  old 
fiiends  of  ours.  In  every  season  of  distress  which  we  can 
remember,  Mr.  Southey  has  been  proclaiming  that  it  is  not 
from  economy,  but  from  increased  taxation,  that  the  coun- 
try must  expect  relief;  and  he  still,  we  find,  places  the 
undoubting  faith  of  a political  Diafoirus,  in  his 
“ Resaignare,  repurgare,  et  reclysterizare." 

“ A people,”  he  tells  us,  “ may  be  too  rich,  but  agoverm 
ment  cannot  be  so,” 


492 


MACAULAY'S  itISCELLANKOUS  WElTmOS. 


“ A state,”  says  lie,  “ cannot  liave  more  wealth  at  its  com- 
mand than  may  be  employed  for  the  general  good,  a liberal 
expenditure  in  national  works  being  one  of  the  surest  means 
of  promoting  national  prosperity;  and  the  benefit  being 
still  more  obvious,  of  an  expenditure  directed  to  the  pur- 
poses of  national  improvement.  But  a people  may  be  too 
rich.” 

We  fully  admit  that  a state  cannot  have  at  its  command 
more  wealth  than  may  be  employed  for  the  general  good. 
But  neither  can  individuals,  or  bodies  of  individuals,  have 
at  their  command  more  wealth  than  may  be  employed  for 
the  general  good.  If  there  be  no  limit  to  the  sum  which 
may  be  usefully  laid  out  in  public  works  and  national  im- 
provement, then  wealth,  whether  in  the  hands  of  private 
men  or  of  the  government,  may  always,  if  the  possessors 
choose  to  spend  it  usefully,  be  usefully  spent.  The  only 
ground,  therefore,  on  Avhicli  Mr.  Southey  can  possibly  main- 
tain that  a government  cannot  be  too  rich,  but  that  a peo- 
ple may  be  too  rich,  must  be  this,  that  governments  are 
more  likely  to  spend  their  money  on  good  objects  than  pri- 
vate individuals. 

But  what  is  useful  expenditure  ? “ A liberal  expenditure 
in  national  works,”  says  Mr.  Southey,  ‘‘  is  one  of  the  surest 
means  for  promoting  national  prosperity.”  What  does  he 
mean  by  national  prosperity  ? Does  he  mean  the  wealth 
of  the  slate?  If  so,  his  reasoning  runs  thus:  The  more 
wealth  a state  has  the  better ; for  the  more  wealth  a state 
has  the  more  wealth  it  will  have.  This  is  surely  some- 
thing like  that  fallacy,  which  is  ungallantly  termed  a lady’s 
reason.  If  by  national  j^rosperity  he  means  the  w^ealth  of 
the  people,  of  how  gross  a contradiction  is  Mr.  Southey 
guilty.  A people,  he  tells  us,  may  be  too  rich:  a govern- 
ment cannot : for  a government  can  employ  its  riches  in 
making  the  people  richer.  The  wealth  of  the  people  is  tc 
be  taken  from  them,  because  they  have  too  much,  and  laid 
out  in  w^orks,  which  will  yield  them  more. 

We  are  really  at  a loss  to  determine  w^hether  Mr.  South- 
ey’s reason  for  recommending  large  taxation  is  that  it  will 
make  the  people  rich,  or  that  it  will  make  them  poor.  But 
we  arc  sure  that,  if  his  object  is  to  make  them  rich,  he  takes 
the  wrong  course.  There  are  two  or  three  principles  respect- 
ing public  works,  which,  as  an  experience  of  vast  extent 
proves,  may  be  trusted  in  almost  every  case. 

It  scarcely  ever  happens  that  any  private  man  or  body 


fiOtJTHEY's  COLLOQUIE0. 


493 


of  men  will  invest  property  in  a canal^  a tunnel,  or  a bridge, 
but  from  an  expectation  tliat  the  outlay  will  be  profitable 
to  them.  No  work  of  tliis  sort  can  be  profitable  to  private 
speculators,  unless  the  public  be  willing  to  pay  lor  the  use 
of  it.  The  public  will  not  pay  of  their  own  accord  for 
what  yields  no  ])rofit  or  convenience  to  them.  There  is 
thus  a direct  and  obvious  connection  between  the  motive 
which  induces  individuals  to  undertake  such  a work,  and 
the  utility  of  the  work. 

Can  we  find  any  such  connection  in  the  case  of  a public 
work  executed  by  a government  ? If  it  is  useful,  are  the 
individuals  who  rule  the  country  richer?  If  it  is  useless, 
are  they  poorer?  A public  man  may  be  solicitous  for  his 
credit.  But  is  not  he  likely  to  gain  more  credit  by  an  use- 
less display  of  ostentatious  architecture  in  a great  town 
than  by  the  best  road  or  the  best  canal  in  some  remote  prov- 
ince ? The  fame  of  public  works  is  a much  less  certain  test 
of  their  utility  than  the  amount  of  toll  collected  at  them. 
In  a corrupt  age,  there  will  be  direct  embezzlement.  In  the 
purest  age,  there  will  be  abundance  of  jobbing.  Never 
were  the  statesmen  of  any  country  more  sensitive  to  public 
opinion,  and  more  spotless  in  pecuniary  transactions,  than 
those  who  have  of  late  governed  England.  Yet  we  have 
only  to  look  at  the  buildings  recently  erected  in  London  for 
a proof  of  our  rule.  In  a bad  age,  the  fate  of  the  public  is 
to  be  robbed  outright.  In  a good  age,  it  is  merely  to  have 
the  dearest  and  worst  of  every  thing. 

Buildings  for  state  purposes  the  state  must  erect.  And 
here  we  think  that  in  general,  the  state  ought  to  stop.  We 
firmly  believe  that  five  hundred  thousand  pounds  subscribed 
by  individuals  for  railroads  or  canals  would  produce  more 
advantage  to  the  public  than  five  millions  voted  by  Parlia- 
ment for  the  same  purpose.  There  are  certain  old  saws 
about  the  master’s  eye  and  about  everybody’s  business,  in 
which  we  place  very  great  faith. 

Tnere  is,  w e have  said,  no  consistency  in  Mr.  Southey’s 
political  system.  But  if  there  be  in  his  political  system  any 
leading  principle,  any  one  error  which  diverges  more  widely 
and  variously  than  any  other,  it  is  that  of  which  his  theory 
about  national  works  is  a ramification.  He  conceives  that 
the  business  of  the  magistrate  is,  not  merely  to  see  that  the 
persons  and  property  of  the  people  are  secure  from  attack, 
but  that  he  ought  to  be  a jack-of-all-trades,  architect,  engi- 
neer schoohmastcr,  merchant,  theologian,  a Lady  Bountiful 


494 


MAC  AULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  AVIUTINGS. 


in  every  parish,  a Paul  Pry  in  every  house,  spying,  caves 
dropping,  relieving,  admonisliing,  spending  our  money  for 
us,  and  choosing  our  opinions  for  us.  His  princijde  is,  if  we 
understand  it  rightly,  that  no  man  can  do  any  tiling  so  well 
for  himself  as  his  rulers,  be  they  who  they  may,  can  do  it 
for  him,  and  that  a government  approaches  nearer  and 
nearer  to  perfection,  in  proportion  as  it  interferes  more  and 
more  with  the  habits  and  notions  of  individuals. 

He  seems  to  be  fully  convinced  that  it  is  in  the  power 
of  government  to  relieve  all  the  distresses  under  which  tlic 
lower  orders  labor.  Nay,  he  considers  doubt  on  this  sub 
ject  as  impious.  We  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  his  argu- 
ment on  this  subject.  It  is  a perfect  jewel  of  logic. 

'•‘Many  thousands  in  your  metropolis,’ says  Sir  Thomas  More,  rise 
every  morning  without  knowing  how  they  are  to  subsist  during  the  day  ; 
as  many  of  them,  where  they  are  to  lay  their  heads  at  night.  All  men, 
even  the  vicious  themselves,  know  that  wickedness  leads  to  misery  : but 
many,  even  among  the  good  and  the  wise,  have  yet  to  learn  that  misery  is 
almost  as  often  the  cause  of  wickedness.’ 

“ ‘ There  are  many,’  says  Montesinos,  ‘who  know  this,  but  believe  that 
it  is  not  in  the  power  of  human  institutions  to  prevent  this  misery.  They 
see  the  effect,  but  regard  the  causes  as  inseparable  from  the  condition  ol 
human  nature.’ 

‘“As  surely  as  God  is  good,’  replies  Sir  Thomas,  ‘ so  surely  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  necessary  evil.  For,  by  the  religious  mind,  sickness,  and 
pain,  and  death,  are  not  to  be  accounted  evils.’” 

Now  if  sickness,  pain,  and  death,  are  not  evils,  vre  cannot 
understand  why  it  should  be  an  evil  that  thousands  should 
rise  without  knowing  how  they  are  to  subsist.  The  only 
evil  of  hunger  is  that  it  produces  first  pain,  than  sickness, 
and  finally  death.  If  it  did  not  produce  these,  it  would  bo 
no  calamity.  If  these  are  not  evils,  it  is  no  calamity.  We 
will  propose  a very  plain  dilemma : either  physical  pain  is 
an  evil,  or  it  is  not  an  evil.  If  it  is  an  evil,  then  there  is 
necessary  evil  in  the  universe  : if  it  is  not,  why  should  the 
poor  be  delivered  from  it  ? 

Mr.  Southey  entertains  as  exaggerated  a notion  of  the 
wisdom  of  governments  as  of  their  power.  He  speaks  with 
tlie  greatest  disgust  of  the  respect  now  paid  to  public  opin- 
ion. That  opinion  is,  according  to  him,  to  be  distrusted 
and  dreaded ; its  usurpation  ought  to  be  vigorously  re- 
sisted ; and  the  practice  of  yielding  to  it  is  likely  to  rum 
the  country.  To  maintain  police  is,  according  to  him.  only 
one  of  the  ends  of  government.  The  duties  of  a ruler  are 
patriarchal  and  paternal.  He  ought  to  consider  the  moral 
discipline  of  the  people  as  his  first  object,  to  establish  u re- 


Southey’s  colloquies. 


m 


ligion,  to  train  tlie  wliole  community  in  that  religion,  and  tc 
consider  all  dissenters  as  his  own  enemies. 

“ ‘ Notliing,’  says  Sir  Thomas,  ‘ is  more  certain,  than  that  religion  is  the 
Oasis  upon  which  civil  government  rests  ; that  from  religion  power  derives 
its  authority,  laws  their  efficacy,  and  botli  their  zeal  and  sanction  ; and  it 
is  necessary  that  this  religion  be  established  as  for  the  security  of  the  state, 
and  for  the  welfare  of  the  people,  who  would  otherwise  be  moved  to  and 
fro  with  every  wind  of  doctrine.  A state  is  secure  in  proportion  as  the  peo- 
jde are  attached  to  its  institutions:  it  is,  therefore,  the  first  and  plainest 
rule  of  sound  policy,  tliat  the  people  be  trained  up  in  tlie  way  they  should 
go.  The  s>tate  that  neglects  this  prepares  its  own  destruction ; and  they  who 
train  tliem  in  any  other  way  are  undermining  it.  Nothing  in  abstract  sci- 
ence can  be  more  certain  than  these  positions  are.’ 

“ ‘ All  of  which,’  answers  Montesinos,  ‘ are  nevertheless  denied  by  our 
professors  of  the  arts  Babblative  and  Scribblative : some  in  the  audacity  of 
evil  designs,  and  others  in  the  glorious  assurance  of  impenetrable  igno- 
rance.’ ” 

The  greater  part  of  the  two  volumes  before  us  is  merely 
an  amplification  of  these  paragraphs.  What  does  Mr. 
Southey  mean  by  saying  that  religion  is  demonstrably  the 
basis  of  civil  government?  He  cannot  surely  mean  that 
men  have  no  motives  except  those  derived  from  religion  for 
establishing  and  supporting  civil  government,  that  no  tem- 
poral advantage  is  derived  from  civil  government,  that  men 
would  experience  no  temporal  inconvenience  from  living  in 
a state  of  anarchy  ? If  he  allows,  as  we  think  he  must  al- 
low, that  it  is  for  the  good  of  mankind  in  this  world  to 
liave  civil  government,  and  that  the  great  majority  of  man- 
kind have  always  tliought  it  for  their  good  in  this  world  to 
have  civil  government,  we  then  have  a basis  for  government 
quite  distinct  from  religion.  It  is  true  that  the  Cliristian 
religion  sanctions  government,  as  it  sanctions  everything 
which  ])romotes  the  happiness  and  virtue  of  our  species. 
But  Ave  are  at  a loss  to  conceh^e  in  what  sense  religion  can 
be  said  to  be  the  basis  of  government,  in  which  religion  is 
not  also  the  basis  of  the  practices  of  eating,  drinking,  and 
lighting  fires  in  cold  Aveather.  Nothing  in  history  is  more 
certain  than  that  goA^ernment  has  existed,  has  received  some 
obedience,  and  has  given  some  protection,  in  times  in  which 
it  derived  no  support  from  religion,  in  times  in  which  there 
Avas  no  religion  that  influenced  the  hearts  and  Ha^cs  of  men. 
It  Avas  not  from  dread  of  Tartarus,  or  from  belief  in  the 
Elysian  fields,  that  an  Athenian  wished  to  have  some  insti- 
tutions which  might  keep  Orestes  from  filching  his  cloak, 
or  Mi dias  from  breaking  his  head.  “It  is  from  religion,” 
Bays  Mr.  Southey,  “ that  power  derives  its  authority,  and 
kws  their  efficacy,”  From  what  religion  does  our  power 


496  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

over  the  Hindoos  derive  its  authority,  or  tlie  law  in  virtue 
of  wliich  we  hang  Brahmins  its  efficacy  ? For  thousands  of 
years  civil  government  lias  existed  in  almost  every  corner 
of  the  world,  in  ages  of  ])riestcraft,  in  ages  of  fanaticism,  in 
ages  of  Epicurean  indifference,  in  ages  of  enlightened  jiiety. 
However  pure  or  impure  the  faith  of  the  people  might  be, 
whether  they  adorned  a beneficent  or  a malignant  power, 
whether  they  thought  the  soul  mortal  or  immortal,  they 
have,  as  soon  as  they  ceased  to  be  absolute  savages,  fouml 
out  their  need  of  civil  government,  and  instituted  it  ac- 
cordingly. It  is  as  universal  as  the  practice  of  cookery. 
Yet,  it  is  as  certain,  says  Mr.  Southey,  as  anything  in 
abstract  science,  that  government  is  founded  on  religion. 
We  should  like  to  know  what  notion  Mr.  Southey  has  of 
the  demonstrations  of  abstract  science.  A very  vague  one, 
we  suspect. 

The  proof  proceeds.  As  religion  is  the  basis  of  gov^ 
ernment,  and  as  the  state  is  secure  in  proportion  as  the  peo- 
ple are  attached  to  public  institutions,  it  is  therefore,  says 
Mr.  Southey,  the  first  rule  of  policy,  that  the  government 
should  train  the  people  in  the  way  in  which  they  should 
go ; and  it  is  plain  that  those  who  train  them  in  any  other 
way  are  undermining  the  state. 

Now  it  does  not  appear  to  us  to  be  the  first  object  that 
people  should  always  believe  in  the  established  religion  and 
be  attached  to  the  established  government.  A religion 
may  be  false.  A government  may  be  oppressive.  And 
whatever  support  government  gives  to  false  religions,  or 
religion  to  oppressive  governments,  we  consider  as  a clear 
evil. 

The  maxim,  that  governments  ought  to  train  the  people 
in  the  way  in  which  they  should  go,  sounds  well.  But  is 
there  any  reason  for  believing  that  a government  is  more 
likely  to  lead  the  people  in  the  right  way  than  the  people 
to  fall  into  the  right  Avay  of  themselves  ? Have  there  not 
been  governments  which  were  blind  leaders  of  the  blind  ? 
Are  there  not  still  such  governments  ? Can  it  be  laid 
down  as  a general  rule  that  the  movement  of  political  and 
religious  truth  is  rather  downwards  from  the  government 
to  the  people  than  upwards  from  the  people  to  the  govern- 
ment ? These  are  questions  which  it  is  of  importance  to 
have  clearly  resolved.  Mr.  Southey  declaims  against  pub- 
lic opinion,  which  is  now,  he  tells  us,  usurping  supreme 
power*  Formerly,  according  to  him,  the  laws  governed ; 


gOUTIlEY’S  COLLOQUIES. 


497 


now  public  opinion  governs.  Wliat  are  laws  nut  expres- 
sions of  the  opinion  of  some  class  which  has  power  over  the 
rest  of  the  community  ? By  what  was  the  world  ever  gov- 
erned but  by  the  opinion  of  some  person  or  persons?  By 
what  else  can  it  ever  be  gov(;rned  ? What  are  all  systems, 
religious,  political,  or  scientilic,  but  opinions  resting  on  evi- 
dence more  or  less  satisfactory?  The  question  is  not  be- 
tween human  opinion  and  some  higher  and  more  certain 
mode  of  arriving  at  truth,  but  between  opinion  and  opinion, 
between  the  opinions  of  one  man  and  another,  or  of  ona 
class  and  another,  or  of  one  generation  and  another.  Pub- 
lic opinion  is  not  infallible ; but  can  Mr.  Southey  construct 
any  institutions  which  shall  secure  to  us  the  guidance  of  an 
infallible  opinion  ? Can  Mr.  Southey  select  any  family,  any 
urofession,  any  class,  in  short,  distinguished  by  any  plain 
badge  from  the  rest  of  the  community,  whose  opinion  is 
more  likely  to  be  just  than  this  much  abused  public  opinion  ? 
Would  he  choose  the  peers,  for  example?  Or  the  two  hun- 
dred tallest  men  in  the  country  ? Or  the  poor  Knights  of 
Windsor  ? Or  children  who  are  born  with  cauls  ? Or  the 
seventh  sons  of  seventh  sons?  We  cannot  suppose  that  he 
would  recommend  popular  election ; for  that  is  merely  an 
appeal  to  public  opinion.  And  to  say  that  society  ought  to 
be  governed  by  the  opinion  of  the  wisest  and  best,  though 
f.rue,  is  useless.  Whose  opinion  is  to  decide,  who  are  the 
wisest  and  best  ? 

Mr.  Southey  and  many  other  respectable  people  seem  to 
diink  that,  when  they  have  once  proved  the  moral  and  re- 
ligious training  of  the  people  to  be  a most  important  object, 
\t  follows,  of  course,  that  it  is  an  object  which  the  govern- 
ment ought  to  pursue.  They  forget  that  we  have  to  con- 
sider, not  merely  the  goodness  of  the  end,  but  also  the  fit- 
ness of  the  means.  Neither  in  the  natural  nor  in  the  politi- 
cal body  have  all  members  the  same  office.  There  is  surely 
no  contradiction  in  saying  that  a certain  section  of  the  com- 
munity mav  be  quite  competent  to  protect  the  persons  and 
property  of  the  rest,  yet  quite  unfit  to  direct  our  opinions,  or 
to  superintend  our  private  habits. 

So  strong  is  the  interest  of  a ruler  to  protect  his  subjects 
against  all  depredations  and  outrages  except  his  own,  so 
clear  and  simple  are  the  means  by  which  this  end  is  to  be 
effected,  that  men  are  probably  better  off  under  the  worst 
governments  in  the  world  than  they  would  be  in  a state  of 
anarchy.  Even  when  the  appointment  of  magistrates  has 
VOL.  _ 


498  macaulay’0  miscellankous  writings. 

been  left  to  cliance,  as  in  the  Italian  Republics,  things  have 
gone  on  far  better  than  if  there  had  been  no  magistrates  at 
all,  and  if  every  man  had  done  what  seemed  right  in  his  own 
eyes.  But  w^e  see  no  reason  for  thinking  that  the  opinions 
of  the  magistrate  on  s])eculative  questions  are  more  likely 
to  be  right  than  those  of  any  otherhnan.  None  of  the  modes 
by  which  a magistrate  is  appointed,  popular  election,  the 
accident  of  the  lot,  or  the  accident  of  birth,  affords,  as  far 
as  we  can  perceive,  much  security  for  his  being  wiser  tlian 
any  of  his  neighbors.  The  chance  of  his  being  wiser  than  all 
his  neighbors  together  is  still  smaller.  Now  we  cannot  un- 
derstand how  it  can  be  laid  down  that  it  is  the  duty  and 
the  right  of  one  class  to  direct  tlie  opinions  of  another,  un- 
less it  can  be  proved  that  the  former  class  is  more  likely  to 
form  just  opinions  than  the  latter. 

The  duties  of  government  would  be,  as  Mr.  Southey 
says  that  they  are,  paternal,  if  a government  were  necessa- 
rily as  much  superior  in  wisdom  to  a people  as  the  most 
foolish  father,  for  a time,  is  to  the  most  intelligent  child,  and 
if  a government  loved  a people  as  fathers  generally  love  their 
children.  But  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  a govern- 
ment will  have  either  the  paternal  warmth  of  affection  or 
the  paternal  superiority  of  intellect.  Mr.  Southey  might  as 
well  say  that  the  duties  of  the  shoemaker  are  paternal,  and 
that  it  is  an  usurpation  in  any  man  not  of  the  craft  to  say 
that  his  shoes  are  bad  and  to  insist  on  having  better.  The 
division  of  labor  would  be  no  blessing,  if  those  by  whom  a 
thing  is  done  were  to  pay  no  attention  to  the  opinion  of  those 
for  whom  it  is  done.  The  shoemaker,  in  the  Relapse,  tells 
Lord  Foppington  that  his  lordship  is  mistaken  in  supposing 
that  his  shoe  pinches.  “ It  does  not  pinch ; it  cannot  pinch ; 
I know  my  business ; I never  made  a better  shoe.'’  This  is 
the  way  in  which  Mr.  Southey  would  have  a government 
treat  a people  who  usurp  the  privilege  of  thin&ng.  Nay, 
the  shoemaker  of  Vanbrugh  has  the  advantage  in  the  com- 
parison. He  contented  himself  with  regulating  his  custom^ 
er’s  shoes,  about  which  he  had  peculiar  means  of  informa- 
tion, and  did  not  presume  to  dictate  about  the  coat  and  hat. 
But  Mr.  Southey  would  have  the  rulers  of  a country  pre- 
scribe opinions  to  the  people,  not  only  about  politics,  but 
about  matters  concerning  which  a government  has  no  pecu- 
liar sources  of  information,  and  concerning  which  any  man 
in  the  streets  may  know  as  much  and  think  as  justly  as  the 
King,  namely  religion  and  moraki 


soutitey’s  COLLOQTJIBS. 


490 


Men  are  never  so  likely  to  settle  a question  rightly  as 
vrhen  they  discuss  it  freely.  A government  can  interfere  in 
discussion  only  by  making  it  less  free  than  it  would  other- 
wise be.  Men  are  most  likely  to  form  just  o[)inions  when 
they  have  no  other  wish  than  to  know  the  truth,  and  are 
exempt  from  all  influence,  either  of  hope  or  fear.  Gov- 
ernment, as  government,  can  bring  nothing  but  the  influ- 
ence of  hopes  and  fears  to  support  its  doctrines.  It  car- 
ries on  controversy,  not  with  reasons,  but  with  threats  and 
bribes.  If  it  employs  reasons,  it  does  so,  not  in  virtue  oi 
any  powers  which  belong  to  it  as  a government.  Thus, 
instead  of  a contest  between  argument  and  argument,  we 
have  a contest  between  argument  and  force.  Instead  of 
a contest  in  which  truth,  from  the  natural  constitution 
of  the  human  mind,  ha«  a decided  advantage  over  false- 
hood, we  have  a contest  in  Avhich  truth  can  be  victorious 
only  by  accident. 

And  what,  after  all,  is  the  security  which  this  training 
gives  to  governments  ? Mr.  Southey  would  scarcely  propose 
that  discussion  should  be  more  efectually  shackled,  that 
public  opinion  should  be  more  strictly  disciplined  into  con- 
formity with  established  institutions,  than  in  Spain  and  Italy. 
Yet  we  know  that  the  restraints  which  exist  in  Spain  and 
Italy  have  not  prevented  atheism  from  spreading  among  the 
educated  classes,  and  especially  among  those  whose  office  it 
is  to  minister  at  the  altars  of  God.  All  our  readers  know  how, 
at  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution,  priest  after  priest 
came  forward  to  declare  that  his  doctrine,  his  ministry,  his 
whole  life,  had  been  a lie,  a mummery  during  which  he 
could  scarcely  compose  his  countenance  sufficiently  to  carry 
on  the  imposture.  This  was  the  case  of  a false,  or  at  least 
of  a grossly  corrupted  religion.  Let  us  take  then  the  case 
of  all  others  most  favorable  to  Mr.  Southey’s  argument. 
Let  us  take  that  form  of  religion  which  he  holds  to  be  the 
purest,  the  system  of  the  Armenian  part  of  the  Church  of 
England.  Let  us  take  the  form  of  government  which  he 
most  admires  and  regrets,  the  government  of  England  in 
the  time  of  Charles  the  First.  Would  he  wish  to  see  a 
closer  connection  between  church  and  state  than  then  ex- 
isted? Would  he  wish  for  more  powerful  ecclesiastical 
tribunals  ? for  a more  zealous  king  ? for  a more  active  primate. 
Would  he  wish  to  see  a more  complete  monopoly  of  public 
instruction  given  to  the  Established  Church  ? Could  any 
government  do  more  to  train  the  people  in  the  way  in  which 


600 


Macaulay’s  MiscfiLLANi:ous  tvnixiNGS* 


he  would  have  them  go  ? And  in  what  did  all  this  training 
end  ? The  Report  of  the  state  of  tlie  Province  of  Canterbury, 
delivered  by  Laud  to  his  master  at  the  close  of  1649,  represents 
the  Church  of  England  as  in  the  highest  and  most  palmy  state. 
So  effectually  had  the  government  pursued  that  policy  which 
Mr.  Southey  wishes  to  sec  revived  that  there  was  scarcely 
the  least  appearance  of  dissent.  Most  of  the  bishops  stated 
that  all  was  well  among  their  flocks.  Seven  or  eight  per- 
sons in  the  diocese  of  Peterborough  had  seemed  refractory 
to  the  church,  but  had  made  ample  submission.  In  Norfolk 
and  Suffolk  all  whom  there  had  been  reason  to  suspect  had 
made  professions  of  conformity,  and  appeared  to  observe 
it  strictly.  It  is  confessed  that  there  was  a little  difficulty 
in  bringing  some  of  the  vulgar  in  Suffolk  to  take  the  sacrar 
ment  at  the  rails  in  the  chancel.  This  was  the  only  open 
instance  of  non-conformity  which  the  vigilant  eye  of  Laud 
could  detect  in  all  the  dioceses  of  his  twenty-one  suffragans, 
on  the  very  eve  of  a revolution  in  which  primate,  and  church, 
and  monarch,  and  monarchy  were  to  perish  together. 

At  which  time  would  Mr.  Southey  pronounce  the  con- 
stitution more  secure ; in  1639,  when  Laud  presented  this 
Report  to  Charles ; or  now,  when  thousands  of  meetings 
openly  collect  millions  of  dissenters,  when  designs  against 
ffie  tithes  are  openly  avowed,  when  books  attacking  not 
)nly  the  Establishment,  but  the  first  j^rinciples  of  Chris 
'ianity,  are  openly  sold  in  the  streets  ? The  signs  of  discon- 
tent, he  tells  us,  are  stronger  in  England  now  than  in  France 
when  the  States-General  met : and  hence  he  would  have  us 
infer  that  a revolution  like  that  of  France  may  be  at  hand. 
Does  he  not  know  that  the  danger  of  states  is  to  be  estima- 
ted, not  by  what  breaks  out  of  the  public  mind,  but  by  what 
stays  in  it  ? Can  he  conceive  anything  more  terrible  than 
the  situation  of  a government  which  rules  without  apprehen- 
sion over  a people  of  hypocrites,  which  is  flattered  by  the 
press  and  cursed  in  the  inner  chambers,  which  exults  in  the 
attachment  and  obedience  of  its  subjects,  and  knows  not 
that  those  subjects  are  leagued  against  it  in  a free-masonry 
of  hatred,  the  sign  of  which  is  every  day  conveyed  in  the 
glance  of  ten  thousand  eyes,  the  pressure  of  ten  thousand 
hands,  and  the  tone  of  ten  thousand  voices  ? Profound  and 
ingenious  policy  ! Instead  of  curing  the  disease,  to  remove 
those  symptoms  by  which  alone  its  nature  can  be  known ! 
To  leave  the  serpent  his  deadly  sting,  and  deprive  him  only 
of  his  warning  rattle ! 


BOliTIlliY’s  COLLOQUIES. 


50i 


W]ien  tli8  people  wliom  Charles  had  so  assiduously 
trained  in  the  good  way  had  rewarded  his  paternal  care  by 
cutting  off  Ids  head,  a new  kind  of  training  came  into  fasli- 
ion.  Another  government  arose  which,  like  the  former, 
considered  religion  as  its  surest  basis,  and  the  religious  dis- 
cipline, of  the  people  as  its  first  duty.  Sanguinary  laws  were 
enacted  against  libertinism  ; profane  pictures  were  burned  ; 
drapery  was  put  on  indecorous  statues ; the  theatres  weie 
shut  up  : fast-days  were  numerous ; and  the  Parliament 
resolved  that  no  person  should  be  admitted  into  any  public, 
employment,  unless  the  House  should  be  first  satisfied  of  liis 
vital  godliness.  W e know  what  Avas  the  end  of  this  training. 
We  knoAV  that  it  ended  in  impiety,  in  filthy  and  heartless 
sensuality,  in  the  dissolution  of  all  ties  of  honor  and  moral- 
ity.' W e know  that  at  this  very  day  scrijitural  phrases,  scrip- 
tural names,  perhaps  some  scriptural  doctrines,  excite  dis- 
gust and  ridicule,  solely  because  they  are  associated  wdth 
the  austerity  of  that  period. 

Thus  has  the  experiment  of  training  the  people  in  estab- 
lished forms  of  religion  been  twice  tried  in  England  on  a large 
scale,  once  by  Charles  and  Laud,  and  once  by  the  Puritans. 
The  High  Tories  of  our  time  still  entertain  many  of  the 
feelings  and  opinions  of  Charles  and  Laud,  tliough  in  a 
mitigated  form  ; nor  is  it  difficult  to  see  that  heirs  of  the 
Puritans  are  still  amongst  us.  It  Avould  be  desirable  that 
each  of  these  parties  should  remember  hoAV  little  advantage 
or  honor  it  formerly  derived  from  the  closest  alliance  with 
power,  that  it  fell  by  the  support  of  rulers,  and  rose  by  their 
opposition,  that  of  the  tAvo  systems  that  in  AsLich  the  peo- 
ple were  at  any  time  drilled  Avas  always  at  that  time  the 
unpopular  system,  that  the  training  of  the  High  Church 
ended  in  the  reign  of  the  Puritans,  and  that  the  training 
of  the  Puritans  ended  in  the  reign  of  the  harlots. 

This  was  quite  natural.  Nothing  is  so  galling  to  a peo- 
ple not  broken  in  from  the  birth  as  a paternal,  or,  in  other 
words,  a meddling  goAxrnment,  a government  Avhich  tells 
them  what  to  read,  and  say,  and  eat,  and  drink  and  wear. 
Our  fathers  could  not  bear  it  tAVO  hundred  years  ago  ; and 
we  are  not  more  patient  than  they.  Mr.  Southey  thinks 
that  the  yoke  of  the  church  is  dropping  off  because  it  is 
loose.  We  feel  convinced  that  it  is  borne  only  because  it 
is  easy,  and  that,  in  the  instant  in  which  an  attempt  is  made 
to  tighten  it,  it  will  be  ffung  aAvay.  It  Avdll  be  neither  the 
first  nor  the  strongest  yoke  that  has  been  broken  asun<ler 


502  Macaulay’s  MiscELLANtiotrs  WRiTixas. 

and  trampled  under  foot  in  the  day  of  the  vengeance  of 
England. 

How  far  Mr.  Southey  Avould  have  the  government  carry 
its  measures  for  training  the  people  in  the  doctrines  of  the 
church,  we  are  unable  to  discover.  In  one  passage  Sir 
Thomas  More  asks  with  great  vehemence, 

“ Is  it  possible  that  your  laws  should  suffer  the  unbe- 
lievers to  exist  as  a party?  Vetitum  est  adeo  sceleris 
nihil?” 

Montesinos  answers.  “ They  avow  themselves  in  defiance 
of  the  laws.  The  fashionable  doctrine  which  the  press  at 
this  time  maintains  is,  that  this  is  a matter  on  which  the  laws 
ought  not  to  interfere,  every  man  having  a right,  both  to 
form  what  opinion  he  pleases  upon  religious  subjects,  and 
to  promulgate  that  opinion.” 

It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Southey  would  not  give 
full  and  perfect  toleration  to  infidelity.  In  another  passage, 
however,  he  observes  with  some  truth,  though  too  sweepingly, 
that  “ any  degree  of  intolerance  short  of  that  full  extent 
which  the  Papal  Church  exercises  where  it  has  the  power, 
acts  upon  the  opinions  which  it  is  intended  to  suppress,  like 
pruning  upon  vigorous  plants ; they  grow  the  stronger  for 
it.”  These  two  passages,  put  together,  would  lead  us  to 
the  conclusion  that,  in  Mr.  Southey’s  opinion,  the  utmost  se- 
verity ever  employed  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  in  the 
days  of  its  greatest  power  ouglit  to  be  employed  against  un- 
believers in  England:  in  plain  words,  that  Carlile  and  his 
shopmen  ought  to  be  burned  in  Srnithfield,  and  that  every 
person  who,  when  called  upon,  should  decline  to  make  a 
solemn  profession  of  Christianity  ought  to  suffer  the  same 
fate.  We  do  not,  however,  believe  that  Mr.  Southey  would 
recommend  such  a course,  though  his  language  would,  ac- 
cording to  all  tlie  rules  of  logic,  justify  us  in  supposing  this 
to  be  his  meaning.  His  opinions  form  no  system  at  all.  He 
never  sees,  at  one  glance,  more  of  a question  than  will  fur- 
nish matter  for  one  flowing  and  well  turned  sentence ; so 
that  it  would  be  the  height  of  unfairness  to  charge  him  per- 
sonally with  holding  a doctrine  merely  because  that  doctrine 
is  deducible,  though  by  the  closest  and  most  accurate  reason- 
ing, from  the  premises  which  he  has  laid  down.  We  are, 
therefore,  left  completely  in  the  dark  as  to  Mr.  Southey’s 
opinions  about  toleration.  Immediately  after  censuring  the 
government  for  not  punishing  infidels,  he  proceeds  to  discuss 
the  question  of  the  Cn^  - !ic  disabilities,  now,  thank  God-, 


Southey’s  colloquies. 


503 


removed,  and  defends  them  on  the  ground  that  the  Catlxolic 
doctrines  tend  to  persecution,  and  that  the  Catholics  perse- 
cuted when  tliey  had  power. 

“ They  must  persecute,”  says  he,  “ if  they  believe  their 
own  creed,  for  conscience-sake  ; and  if  they  do  not  believe  it, 
they  must  persecute  for  policy ; because  it  is  only  by  intoler- 
ance that  so  corrupt  and  injurious  a system  can  be  upheld.” 

That  unbelievers  should  not  be  persecuted  is  an  instance 
<of  national  depravity  at  which  the  glorified  spirits  stand 
aghast.  Yet  a sect  of  Christians  is  to  be  excluded  from 
power,  because  those  who  formerly  held  the  same  opinions 
were  guilty  of  pei'secution.  We  have  said  that  we  do  not 
very  well  know  what  Mr.  Southey’s  opinion  about  toleration 
is.  " But,  on  the  whole,  we  take  it  to  be  this,  that  everybody 
is  to  tolerate  him,  and  that  he  is  to  tolerate  nobody. 

We  will  not  be  deterred  by  any  fear  of  misrepresentation 
from  expressing  our  hearty  approbation  of  the  mild,  wise, 
and  eminently  Christian  manner  in  which  the  Church  and 
the  government  had  lately  acted  with  respect  to  blasphe- 
mous publications.  We  praise  them  for  not  having  thought 
it  necessary  to  encircle  a religion  pure,  merciful,  and  phil- 
osophical, a religion  to  the  evidence  of  which  the  highest 
intellects  have  yielded,  with  the  defences  of  a false  and 
bloody  superstition.  The  ark  of  God  was  neA^er  taken  till 
it  was  surrounded  by  the  arms  of  earthly  defenders.  In 
captivity,  its  sanctity  was  sufficient  to  vindicate  it  from  in- 
sult, and  to  lay  the  hostile  fiend  prostrate  on  the  threshold 
of  his  OAvn  temple.  The  real  security  of  Christianity  is  to 
be  found  in  its  benevolent  morality,  in  its  exquisite  adapta- 
tion to  the  human  heart,  in  the  facility  Avith  Avhich  its  scheme 
accommodates  itself  to  the  capacity  of  every  human  intel- 
lect, in  the  consolation  Avhich  it  bears  to  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing, in  the  light  Avith  Avhich  it  brightens  the  great  mystery 
of  the  grave.  To  such  a system  it  can  bring  no  addition  of 
dignity  or  of  strength,  that  it  is  part  and  parcel  of  the 
common  law.  It  is  not  now  for  the  first  time  left  to  rely 
on  the  force  of  its  own  evidences  and  the  attractions  of  its 
own  beauty.  Its  sublime  theology  confounded  the  Grecian 
schools  in  the  fair  conflict  of  reason  with  reason.  The 
bravest  and  Avisest  of  the  Caesars  found  their  arms  and  their 
policy  unaYailing,  Avhen  opposed  to  the  weapons  that  Av^ere 
not  carnal  and  the  kingdom  that  was  not  of  this  Avorld.  The 
victory  Avhich  Porphyry  and  Diocletian  failed  to  gain  is 
Botj  to  all  appcaranoci  reserved  for  any  of  those  who  have, 


f 


504  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

in  tills  age,  directed  their  attacks  against  the  last  restraint 
of  the  powerful  and  the  last  hope  of  the  wretclied.  The 
whole  history  of  Christianity  shows,  that  she  is  in  far  greater 
danger  of  being  corrupted  by  the  alliance  of  power,  than  of 
being  crushed  by  its  opposition.  Those  who  thrust  tem- 
poral sovereignty  upon  her  treat  her  as  their  jirototypes 
treated  her  author.  They  bow  the  knee,  and  sjiit  upon 
her ; they  cry  ‘‘  Hail ! ” and  smite  her  on  the  check ; they 
put  a sceptre  in  her  hand,  but  it  is  a fragile  reed ; they 
crown  her,  but  it  is  with  thorns ; they  cover  with  pur])le 
the  wounds  which  their  own  hands  have  inflicted  on  her ; 
and  inscribe  magnificent  titles  over  the  cross  on  which  they 
have  fixed  her  to  perish  in  ignominy  and  pain. 

The  general  view  which  Mr.  Southey  takes  of  the  pros- 
pects of  society  is  very  gloomy  ; but  we  comfort  ourselves 
with  the  consideration  that  Mr.  Southey  is  no  prophet.  He 
foretold,  we  remember,  on  the  very  eve  of  the  abolition  of 
the  Test  and  Corporation  Acts,  that  these  hateful  laws  were 
immortal,  and  that  pious  minds  would  long  be  gratified  by 
seeing  the  most  solemn  religious  rite  of  the  Church  profaned 
for  the  purpose  of  upholding  her  political  supremacy.  In 
the  book  before  us,  he  says  that  Catholics  cannot  possibly  be 
admitted  into  Parliament  until  those  whom  Johnson  called 
“ the  bottomless  Whigs  ” come  into  power.  While  the 
book  was  in  the  press,  the  prophecy  Avas  falsified ; and  a 
Tory  of  the  Tories,  Mr.  Southey’s  own  favorite  hero,  won 
and  wore  that  noblest  wreath,  “ Ob  cives  servatos.” 

The  signs  of  the  times,  Mr.  Southey  tells  us,  are  very 
threatening.  His  fears  for  the  country  Avould  decidedly 
preponderate  over  his  hopes,  but  for  his  firm  reliance  on  the 
mercy  of  God.  Now,  as  Ave  know  that  God  has  once 
suffered  the  civilized  world  to  be  overrun  by  savages,  and 
the  Christian  religion  to  be  corrupted  by  doctrines  which 
made  it,  for  some  ages,  almost  as  bad  as  Paganism,  Ave  can- 
not think  it  inconsistent  Avith  his  attributes  that  similar 
calamities  should  again  befall  mankind. 

We  look,  howeA^er,  on  the  state  of  the  world,  and  of  this 
kingdom  in  particular,  with  much  greater  satisfaction  and 
with  better  hopes.  Mr.  Southey  speaks  Avith  contempt  of 
those  who  think  the  savage  state  happier  than  the  social. 
On  this  subject,  he  says,  Rousseau  never  imposed  on  him 
even  in  his  youth.  But  he  conceives  that  a community 
which  has  advanced  a little  way^  in  civilization  is  happier 
than  one  which  has  made  greater  progress.  The  Briton.^ 


Southey’s  colloquies. 


505 


in  the  time  of  Caesar  were  happier,  lie  suspects,  than  the 
English  of  the  nineteenth  century.  On  the  whole,  he  se- 
lects the  generation  wliich  preceded  the  Reformation  as 
that  in  wliicli  tlic  people  of  this  country  were  better  off 
than  at  any  time  before  or  since. 

This  opinion  rests  on  nothing,  as  far  as  we  can  see, 
except  his  own  individual  associations.  He  is  a man  of 
letters  ; and  a life  destitute  of  literary  pleasures  seems  in- 
sipid to  him.  He  abhors  the  spirit  of  the  present  genera- 
tion, the  severity  of  its  studies,  the  boldness  of  its  inquiries, 
and  the  disdain  with  which  it  regards  some  old  prejudice 
by  which  his  own  mind  is  held  in  bondage.  He  dislikes  an 
utterly  unenlightened  age  ; he  dislikes  an  investigating  and 
reforming  age.  The  first  twenty  years  of  the  sixteenth 
century  would  have  exactly  suited  him.  They  furnished 
just  tlie  quantity  of  intellectual  excitement  which  he  requires. 
The  learned  few  read  and  wrote  largely.  A scholar  was 
held  in  high  estimation.  But  the  rabble  did  not  presume 
to  think  ; and  even  the  most  inquiring  and  independent  of 
the  educated  classes  paid  more  reverence  to  authority,  and 
less  to  reason,  than  is  usual  in  our  time.  This  is  a state  of 
things  in  which  Mr.  Southey  would  have  found  himself  quite 
comfortable  ; and,  accordingly,  he  pronounces  it  the  happiest 
state  of  things  ever  known  in  the  world. 

The  savages  were  wretched,  says  Mr.  Southey  ; but  the 
people  in  the  time  of  Sir  Thomas  More  were  happier  than 
either  they  or  v/e.  Now  we  think  it  quite  certain  that  we 
have  the  advantage  over  the  contemporaries  of  Sir  Thomas 
More,  in  every  point  in  which  they  had  any  advantage  over 
savages. 

Mr.  Southey  does  not  even  pretend  to  maintain  that  the 
people  in  the  sixteenth  century  were  better  lodged  or  clothed 
than  at  present.  He  seems  to  admit  that  in  these  respects 
there  has  been  some  little  improvement.  It  is  indeed  a 
matter  about  which  scarcely  any  doubt  can  exist  in  the  most 
perverse  mind  that  the  improvements  of  machinery  have 
lowered  the  price  of  manufactured  articles,  and  have 
brought  Avithin  the  reach  of  the  j3oorest  some  conveniences 
which  Sir  Thomas  More  or  his  master  could  not  have  ob- 
tained at  any  price. 

The  laboring  classes,  however,  were,  according  to  Mr. 
Southey,  better  fed  three  hundred  years  ago  than  at  present. 
W e believe  that  he  is  completely  in  error  on  this  point. 
The  condition  of  servants  in  noble  and  wealthy  families; 


606  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  of  scholars  at  the  Universities,  must  surely  have  been 
better  in  those  times  than  that  of  clay-laborers  ; and  we 
are  sure  that  it  was  not  better  tlian  that  of  our  workhouse 
paupers.  From  the  household  book  of  the  Northumberland 
family,  we  find  that  in  one  of  the  greatest  establishments 
of  the  kingdom  the  servants  lived  very  much  as  common 
sailors  live  now.  In  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Sixth  the 
state  of  the  students  at  Cambridge  is  described  to  us,  on 
the  very  best  authority,  as  most  wretched.  Many  of  them 
dined  on  pottage  made  of  a farthing’s  worth  of  beef  with  a 
little  salt  and  oatmeal,  and  literally  nothing  else.  This 
account  we  have  from  a contemporary  master  of  St.  John’s. 
Our  parish  poor  now  cat  wheaten  bread.  In  the  sixteenth 
century  the  laborer  was  glad  to  get  barley,  and  was  often 
forced  to  content  himself  with  poorer  fare.  In  Harrison’s 
introduction  to  Ilolinshed  we  have  an  account  of  the  state 
of  our  working  population  in  the  “ golden  days,”  as  Mr. 
Southey  calls  them,  “ of  good  Queen  Bess.”  “ The  gentilitie,” 
says  he,  ‘‘ commonly  provide  themselves  sufficiently  of  wheat 
for  their  own  tables,  whylest  their  household  and  poore  neigh- 
bours in  some  shires  are  inforced  to  content  themselves  with 
rye  or  barleie  ; yea,  and  in  time  of  dearth,  many  with  bread 
made  eyther  of  beanes,  peason,  or  otes,  or  of  altogether,  and 
some  acornes  among.  I will  not  say  that  this  extremity  is  oft 
so  well  to  be  seen  in  time  of  plentie  as  of  dearth,  but  if  I should 
I could  easily  bring  my  trial ; for  albeit  there  be  much  more 
grounde  eared  nowe  almost  in  everye  place  then  hathe  beene 
of  late  yeares,  yet  such  a price  of  come  continueth  in  cache 
towne  and  markete,  without  any  just  cause,  that  the  artificer 
and  poore  labouring  man  is  not  able  to  reach  unto  it,  but  is 
driven  to  content  himself  with  horse-corne.”  We  should 
like  to  see  what  the  effect  would  be  of  putting  any  parish 
in  England  now  on  allowance  of  “ horse-corne.”  The 
helotry  of  Mammon  are  not,  in  our  day,  so  easily  enforced 
to  content  themselves  as  the  peasantry  of  that  happy  period, 
as  Mr.  Southey  considers  it,  which  elapsed  between  the  fall 
of  the  feudal  and  the  rise  of  the  commercial  tyranny. 

“ The  people,”  says  Mr.  Southey,  “ are  worse  fed  than 
when  they  were  fishers.”  And  yet  in  another  place  he 
complains  that  they  will  not  eat  fish.  “ They  have  con- 
tracted,” says  he,  “ I know  not  how,  some  obstinate  prejudice 
against  a kind  of  food  at  once  wholesome  and  delicate,  and 
every  where  to  be  obtained  cheaply  and  in  abundance,  were 
the  demand  for  it  as  general  as  it  ought  to  be.”  It  is  trie 


Southey’s  colloquies. 


507 


that  the  lower  orders  have  an  obstinate  prejudice  against 
fish.  But  hunger  has  no  such  obstinate  prejudices.  If 
what  was  formerly  a common  diet  is  now  eaten  only  in  times 
of  severe  pressure,  the  inference  is  plain.  The  people  must 
be  fed  with  what  they  at  least  think  better  food  than  that 
>f  their  ancestors. 

The  advice  and  medicine  which  the  poorest  laborer  can 
now  obtain,  in  disease,  or  after  an  accident,  is  far  superior  to 
what  Henry  the  Eighth  could  have  commanded.  Scarcely 
any  part  of  the  country  is  out  of  the  reach  of  practitioners 
who  are  probably  not  so  far  inferior  to  Sir  Henry  Halford 
as  they  are  superior  to  Dr.  Butts.  That  there  has  been  a 
great  improvement  in  this  respect,  Mr.  Southey  allows. 
Indeed  he  could  not  well  have  denied  it.  “ But,”  says  he, 
“ the  evils  for  which  these  sciences  are  the  palliative,  have 
increased  since  the  time  of  the  Druids,  in  a proportion 
that  heavily  overweighs  the  benefit  of  improved  thera- 
peutics.” We  know  nothing  either  of  the  diseases  or  the 
remedies  of  the  Druids.  But  we  are  quite  sure  that  the 
improvement  of  medicine  has  far  more  than  kept  pace  with 
the  increase  of  disease  during  the  last  three  centuries.  This 
is  proved  by  the  best  possible  evidence.  The  term  of 
human  life  is  decidedly  longer  in  England  than  in  any 
former  age,  respecting  which  we  possess  any  information 
on  which  we  can  rely.  All  the  rants  in  the  world  about 
j)icturesque  cottages  and  temples  of  Mammon  will  not  shake 
this  argument.  No  test  of  the  physical  well-being  of  society 
can  be  named  so  decisive  as  that  which  is  furnished  by  bills 
of  mortality.  That  the  lives  of  the  people  of  this  country 
have  been  gradually  lengthening  during  the  course  of  several 
generations,  is  as  certain  as  any  fact  in  statistics  ; and  that 
the  lives  of  men  should  become  longer  and  longer,  while 
their  bodily  condition  during  life  is  becoming  worse  and 
worse,  is  utterly  incredible. 

Let  our  readers  think  over  these  circumstances.  Let 
them  take  into  the  account  the  sweating  sickness  and  the 
plague.  Let  them  take  into  the  account  that  fearful  disease 
which  first  made  its  appearance  in  the  generation  to  w hicli 
Mr.  Southey  assigns  the  palm  of  felicity,  and  raged  through 
Europe  with  a fury  at  which  the  physician  stood  aghast,  and 
before  which  the  people  w^ere  swept  away  by  myriads.  Let 
them  consider  the  state  of  the  northern  counties,  constantly 
the  scene  of  robberies,  rapes,  massacres,  and  conflagrations. 
Let  them  add  to  all  this  the  fact  that  seventy-two  thousand 


i 


508  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

persons  suffered  death  by  the  liands  of  tlie  executioner  during 
the  reign  of  Henry  tlie  Eightli,  and  judge  between  thenine* 
teenth  and  the  sixteenth  century. 

We  do  not  say  that  the  lower  orders  in  England  do  not 
Buffer  severe  hardships.  But,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Southey’s  asser- 
tions, and  in  spite  of  the  assertions  of  a class  of  politicians, 
who  differing  from  Mr.  Southey  in  every  other  point,  agree 
with  him  in  this,  we  are  inclined  to  doubt  whether  the  la- 
boring classes  here  really  suffer  greater  physical  distress 
than  the  laboring  classes  of  the  most  flourishing  countries 
of  the  Continent. 

It  will  scarcely  be  maintained  that  the  lazzaroni  who  sleep 
under  the  porticoes  of  Naples,  or  the  beggars  who  besiege 
the  convents  of  Spain,  arc  in  a happier  situation  than  the 
English  commonalty.  The  distress  which  has  lately  been 
experienced  in  the  northern  part  of  Germany,  one  of  the  best 
governed  and  most  prosperous  regions  of  Europe,  surpasses, 
if  we  have  been  correctly  informed,  anything  which  has  of 
late  years  been  known  among  us.  In  Norway  and  Sweden 
the  peasantry  are  constantly  compelled  to  mix  bark  with 
their  bread ; and  even  tliis  expedient  has  not  always  pre- 
served whole  families  and  neighborhoods  from  perishing  to- 
gether of  famine.  An  exj^erimenthas  lately  been  tried  in  the 
kingdom  of  the  Netherlands,  which  has  been  cited  to  prove 
the  possibility  of  establishing  agricultural  colonies  on  the 
waste  lands  of  England,  but  which  proves  to  our  minds  noth- 
ing so  clearly  as  this,  that  the  rate  of  subsistence  to  which 
the  laboring  classes  are  reduced  in  the  Netherlands  is  mis- 
erably low,  and  very  far  inferior  to  that  of  the  English  pau- 
pers. No  distress  which  the  people  here  have  endured  for 
centuries  approaches  to  that  which  has  been  felt  by  the 
French  in  our  own  time.  The  beginning  of  the  year  1817 
was  a time  of  great  distress  in  this  island.  But  the  state  of 
the  lowest  classes  here  was  luxury  comiiared  with  that  of 
fhe  people  of  France.  We  find  in  Magendie’s  ‘‘Journal  de 
Physiologic  Experimentale”  a paper  on  a point  of  physiology 
connected  with  the  distress  of  that  season.  It  appears  that 
the  inhabitants  of  six  departments,  Aix,  Jura,  Doubs,  Haute 
Saone,  Vosges,  and  Saone-et-Loire,  were  reduced  first  to  oat- 
meal and  potatoes,  and  at  last  to  nettles,  bean-stalks,  and 
others  kinds  of  herbage  fit  only  for  cattle ; that  when  the 
next  harvest  enabled  them  to  eat  barley-bread,  many  of  t hern 
died  from  intemperate  indulgence  in  what  they  tliought 
an  exquisite  repast ; and  that  a dropsy  of  a peculiar  descrip- 


SOUTHEY  S COLLOQUIES. 


509 


tion  was  produced  by  the  hard  fare  of  the  year.  Dead 
bodies  were  found  on  the  roads  and  in  the  fields.  A single 
surgeon  dissected  six  of  these,  and  found  the  stomach 
shrunk,  and  filled  with  the  unwholesome  aliments  which 
hunger  had  driven  men  to  share  with  beasts.  Such  extremity 
of  distress  as  this  is  never  heard  of  in  England,  or  even  in 
Ireland.  We  are,  on  the  whole,  inclined  to  think,  though 
we  would  speak  with  diffidence  on  a point  on  which  it 
would  be  rash  to  pronounce  a positive  judgment  without  a 
much  longer  and  closer  investigation  than  we  have  bestowed 
upon  it,  that  the  laboring  classes  of  this  island,  though 
they  have  their  grievances  and  distresses,  some  produced  by 
their  own  improvidence,  some  by  the  errors  of  their  rulers, 
are  on  the  whole  better  off  as  to  physical  comforts  than  the 
inhabitants  of  any  equally  extensive  district  of  the  old 
world.  For  this  very  reason,  suffering  is  more  acutely  felt 
and  more  loudly  bewailed  here  than  elsewhere.  We  must 
take  into  the  account  the  liberty  of  discussion,  and  the 
strong  interest  which  the  opponents  of  a ministry  always 
have  to  exaggerate  the  extent  of  the  public  disasters.  There 
are  countries  in  which  the  people  quietly  endure  distress 
that  here  would  shake  the  foundations  of  the  state,  countries 
in  which  the  inhabitants  of  a whole  province  turn  out  to  eat 
grass  with  less  clamor  than  one  Spitalfields  weaver  would  make 
here,  if  the  overseers  were  to  put  him  on  barley-bread.  In 
those  new  commonwealths  in  which  a civilized  population 
has  at  its  command  a boundless  extent  of  the  richest  soil, 
the  condition  of  the  laborer  is  probably  happier  than  in  any 
society  which  has  lasted  for  many  centuries.  But  in  the 
old  world  we  must  confess  ourselves  unable  to  find  any 
satisfactory  record  of  any  great  nation,  past  or  present,  in 
which  the  working  classes  have  been  .n  a more  comfortable 
situation  than  in  England  during  the  last  thirty  years. 
When  this  island  was  thinly  peopled,  it  was  barbarous : 
there  was  little  capital ; and  that  little  was  insecure.  It  is 
now  the  richest  and  the  most  highly  civilized  spot  in  the 
world ; but  the  population  is  dense.  Thus  we  have  never 
known  that  golden  age  which  the  lower  orders  in  the 
United  States  are  now  enjoying.  We  have  never  known 
an  age  of  liberty,  of  order,  and  of  education,  an  age  in  which 
the  mechanical  sciences  were  carried  to  a great  height, 
yet  in  which  the  people  were  not  sufficiently  numerous  to 
cultivate  even  the  most  fertile  valleys.  But,  when  we  com- 
pare our  own  condition  with  that  of  our  ancestors,  we  think 


510  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

it  clear  tliat  tlie  advantages  arising  from  the  progress  of 
civilization  have  far  more  than  counterbalanced  the  disad- 
vantages arising  from  the  progress  of  j)opulation.  While 
our  numbers  have  increased  tenfold,  our  wealth  has  increased 
a hundred-fold.  Though  there  are  so  many  more  people  to 
share  the  wealth  now  existing  in  the  countrv  than  there 
were  in  the  sixteenth  century,  it  seems  certain  that  a greater 
sliare  falls  to  almost  every  individual  than  fell  to  the  share  of 
any  of  the  corresponding  class  in  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
King  keeps  a more  splendid  court.  The  establishments  of 
the  nobles  are  more  magnificent.  The  esquires  are  richer ; 
merchants  are  richer;  the  shopkeepers  are  richer.  The 
servingman,  the  artisan,  and  the  husbandman,  have  a more 
copious  and  palatable  supply  of  food,  better  clothing  and 
better  furniture.  This  is  no  reason  for  tolerating  abuses ; 
or  for  neglecting  any  means  of  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
our  poorer  countrymen.  But  it  is  a reason  against  telling 
them,  as  some  of  our  philosophers  are  constantly  telling  them, 
that  they  are  the  most  wretched  people  who  ever  existed  on 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

We  have  already  adverted  to  Mr.  Southey’s  amusing 
doctrine  about  national  wealth.  A state,  says  he,  cannot  be 
too  rich ; but  a people  may  be  too  rich.  His  reason  for 
thinking  this  is  extremely  curious. 

A people  may  be  too  rich,  because  it  is  the  tendency  of  the  commercial, 
and  more  especially  of  the  manufacturing  system,  to  collect  wealth  rather 
than  to  diffuse  it.  Where  wealth  is  necessarily  employed  in  any  of  the 
speculations  of  trade,  its  increase  is  in  proportion  to  its  amount.  Great 
capitalists  become  like  pikes  in  a fish-pond,  who  devour  the  weaker  fish  ; 
and  it  is  but  too  certain,  that  the  poverty  of  one  part  of  the  people  seems  to 
increase  in  the  same  ratio  as  the  riches  of  another.  There  are  examples  of 
tills  in  history.  In  Portugal,  when  the  high  tide  of  wealth  flowed  in  from 
the  conquests  in  Africa  and  the  East,  the  effect  of  that  great  influx  was  not 
more  visible  in  the  augmented  splendor  of  the  court,  and  the  luxury  of  the 
higher  ranks,  than  in  the  distress  of  the  people."* 

Mr.  Southey’s  instance  is  not  a very  fortunate  one.  The 
wealth  which  did  so  little  for  the  Portuguese  was  not  the 
fruit  either  of  manufactures  or  of  commerce  carried  on  by 
private  individuals.  It  was  the  wealth,  not  of  the  people, 
but  of  the  government  and  its  creatures,  of  those  who,  as 
Mr.  Southey  thinks,  can  never  be  too  rich.  The  fact  is  that 
Mr.  Southey’s  proposition  is  opposed  to  all  history,  and  to 
the  phaenomena  which  surround  us  on  every  side.  England 
is  the  richest  country  in  Europe,  the  most  commercial  coun- 
try, and  the  country  in  which  manufactures  flourish  most. 
Russia  and  Poland  are  the  poorest  countries  in  Europe. 


SOUTHEY  S COI.LOQUIES. 


511 


They  have  scarcely  any  trade,  and  none  but  the  rudest  man- 
ufactures. Is  wcaltli  more  diffused  in  Russia  and  Poland 
than  in  England  ? Tliere  are  individuals  in  Russia  and 
Poland  whose  incomes  are  ])robably  equal  to  those  of  our 
richest  countrymen.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  there  are 
not,  in  those  countries,  as  many  fortunes  of  eighty  thousand 
a year  as  here.  But  are  there  as  many  fortunes  of  two 
thousand  a year,  or  of  one  thousand  a year?  Tliere  are 
parishes  in  England  which  contain  more  people  of  bet\veen 
three  hundred  and  three  thousand  pounds  a year  than  could 
be  found  in  all  the  dominions  of  the  Emperor  Nicholas. 
The  neat  and  commodious  houses  which  have  been  built  in 
London  and  its  vicinity,  for  people  of  this  class,  within  the 
last  thirty  years  would  of  themselves  form  a city  larger  than 
the  capitals  of  some  European  kingdoms.  And  this  is  the 
state  of  society  in  which  the  great  proprietors  have  devoured 
a smaller. 

The  cure  which  Mr.  Southey  thinks  that  he  has  dis- 
covered is  worthy  of  the  sagacity  which  he  has  shown  in 
detecting  the  evil.  The  calamities  arising  from  the  collec- 
tion of  wealth  in  the  hands  of  a few  capitalists  are  to  be 
remedied  by  collecting  it  in  the  hands  of  one  great  capitalist, 
who  has  no  conceivable  motive  to  use  it  better  than  other 
capitalists,  the  all-devouring  state. 

It  is  not  strange  that  differing  so  widely  from  Mr. 
Southey  as  to  the  past  progress  of  society,  we  should  differ 
from  him  also  as  to  its  probable  destiny.  He  thinks,  that 
to  all  outward  appearance,  the  country  is  hastening  to  de- 
struction ; but  he  relies  firmly  on  the  goodness  of  God.  We 
do  not  see  either  the  piety  or  the  rationality  of  thus  confi- 
dently expecting  that  the  Supreme  Being  will  interfere  to 
disturb  the  common  succession  of  causes  and  effects.  We, 
too,  rely  on  his  goodness  as  manifested,  not  in  extraordinary 
interpositions,  but  in  those  general  laws  which  it  has  pleased 
him  to  establish  in  the  physical  and  in  the  moral  world. 
We  rely  on  the  natural  tendency  of  the  human  intellect  to 
truth,  and  on  the  natural  tendency  of  society  to  improve- 
ment. We  know  no  well  authenticated  instance  of  a people 
which  has  decidedly  retrograded  in  civilization  and  pros- 
perity, except  from  the  influence  of  violent  and  terrible  ca- 
lamities, such  as  those  which  laid  the  iRoman  empire  in  ruins, 
or  those  which,  about  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
desolated  Italy.  We  know  of  no  country  which,  at  the  encl 
of  fifty  years  of  peace,  and  tolerable  good  government,  lias 


512  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  weitinos, 

been  less  prosperous  than  at  tlie  beginning  of  tliat  period. 
TJie  political  importance  of  a state  may  decline,  as  the  bal- 
ance of  power  is  disturbed  by  the  introduction  of  new  forces. 
Thus  the  influence  of  Holland  and  of  Spam  is  much  dimin- 
ish«^d.  But  are  Holland  and  Spain  poorer  than  formerly  ? 
We  doubt  it.  Other  countries  have  outrun  them.  But  we 
suspect  that  they  have  been  positively,  though  not  relatively, 
advancing.  We  suspect  that  Holland  is  richer  than  when 
she  sent  her  navies  up  the  Thames,  that  Spain  is  richer  than 
when  a French  king  was  brought  captive  to  the  footstool  of 
Charles  the  Fifth. 

History  is  full  of  the  signs  of  this  natural  progress  of 
society.  We  see  in  almost  every  ]>art  of  the  annals  of  man- 
kind how  the  industry  of  individuals,  struggling  up  against 
wars,  taxes,  famines,  conflagrations,  mischievous  prohibit 
tions,  and  more  mischievous  protections,  creates  faster  than 
governments  can  squander,  and  repairs  whatever  invaders 
can  destroy.  We  see  the  wealth  of  nations  increasing,  and 
all  the  arts  of  life  approaching  nearer  and  nearer  to  perfec- 
tion, in  spite  of  the  grossest  corruj^tion  and  the  wildest  pro- 
fusion on  the  part  of  rulers. 

The  ]u’esent  moment  is  one  of  great  distress.  But  how 
small  will  that  distress  appear  when  we  think  over  the  his- 
tory of  the  last  forty  years  ; a war,  compared  with  which  all 
other  wars  sink  into  insignificance  ; taxation,  such  as  the  most 
heavily  taxed  people  of  former  times  could  not  have  con- 
ceived ; a debt  larger  than  all  the  public  debts  that  ever  ex- 
isted m the  world  added  together;  the  food  of  the  people 
studiously  rendered  dear  ; the  currency  imprudently  debased, 
and  imprudently  restored.  Yet  is  the  country  poorer  than  in 
1790  ? We  firmly  believe  that,  is  spite  of  all  the  misgovern* 
ment  of  her  rulers,  she  has  been  almost  constantly  becoming 
richer  and  richer.  Now  and  then  there  has  been  a stoppage, 
now  and  then  a short  retrogression  ; but  as  to  the  general 
tendency  there  can  be  no  doubt.  A single  breaker  may  re- 
cede ; but  the  tide  is  evidently  coming  in. 

If  we  were  to  prophesy  that  in  the  year  1930  a popular 
tion  of  fifty  millions,  better  fed,  clad,  and  lodged  than  the 
English  of  our  time,  will  cover  these  islands,  that  Sussex 
and  Huntingdonshire  will  be  wealthier  than  the  wealthiest 
parts  of  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire  now  are,  and  cultiva- 
tion, rich  as  that  of  a flower-garden,  will  be  carried  up  to  tho 
very  tops  of  Ben  Nevis  and  Helvellyn,  that  machines  con- 
structed on  principles  yet  undiscovered  will  be  in  every 


SOUTHEY  S COLLOQUIES. 


513 


house,  that  there  will  be  no  highways  but  railroads,  no 
travelling  but  by  steam,  that  our  debt,  vast  as  it  seems  to 
us,  will  appear  to  our  great-grandchildren  a trifling  encum- 
brance, which  might  easily  be  paid  off  in  a year  or  two,  many 
people  would  think  us  insane.  We  prophesy  nothing ; but 
this  we  say : If  any  person  had  told  the  Parliament  which 
met  in  perplexity  and  terror  after  the  crash  in  1720  that  in 
1830  the  wealth  of  England  would  surpass  all  their  wildest 
dreams,  that  the  annual  revenue  would  equal  the  principal  of 
that  debt  which  they  considered  as  an  intolerable  burden,  that 
for  one  man  of  ten  thousand  pounds  then  living  there  would 
be  five  men  of  fifty  thousand  pounds,  that  London  would  be 
twice  as  large  and  twice  as  populous,  and  that  nevertheless 
the  rate  of  mortality  would  have  diminished  to  one  half  of 
what  it  then  was,  that  the  post-ofllce  would  bring  more  into 
the  exchequer  than  the  excise  and  customs  had  brought  in 
together  under  Charles  the  Second,  that  stage-coaches  would 
run  from  London  to  York  in  twenty-four  hours,  that  men 
would  be  in  the  habit  of  sailing  without  wind,  and  would  be 
beginning  to  ride  without  horses,  our  ancestors  would  have 
given  as  much  credit  to  the  prediction  as  they  gave  to  Gul- 
liver’s Travels.  Yet  the  prediction  would  have  been  true  ; 
and  they  would  have  perceived  that  it  was  not  altogether 
absurd,  if  they  had  considered  that  the  country  was  then 
raising  every  year  a sum  which  would  have  purchased  the 
fee-simple  of  the  revenue  of  the  Plantagenets,  ten  times 
what  supported  the  government  of  Elizabeth,  three  times 
what,  in  the  time  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  had  been  thought  in- 
tolerably oppressive.  To  almost  all  men  the  state  of  things 
under  which  they  have  been  used  to  live  seems  to  be  the 
necessary  state  of  things.  We  have  heard  it  said  that  five 
per  cent,  is  the  natural  interest  of  money,  that  twelve  is  the 
natural  number  of  a jury,  that  forty  shillings  is  the  natural 
qualification  of  a country  voter.  Hence  it  is  that,  though 
in  every  age  everybody  knows  that  up  to  his  own  time  pro- 
gressive improvement  has  been  taking  place,  nobody  seems 
to  reckon  on  any  improvement  during  the  next  generation. 
We  cannot  absolutely  prove  that  those  are  in  error  who  tell 
us  that  society  has  reached  a turning  point,  that  we  liave 
seen  our  best  days.  But  so  said  all  who  came  before  us,  and 
with  just  as  much  apparent  reason.  “ A million  a year  will 
beggar  us,”  said  the  patriots  of  1640.  “ Two  millions  a 

year  will  grind  the  country  to  powder,”  was  the  cry  in  1660, 
‘‘  Six  millions  a yeai  j and  a debt  of  fifty  millions ! ” ex- 
VoL.  I.— 33 


614 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wniriNOS. 


claimed  Swift ; “ the  high  allies  have  been  the  ruin  of  us.” 
“A  hundred  and  forty  millions  of  debt!  ” said  Junius; “well 
may  we  say  that  we  owe  Lord  Chatham  more  than  we  shall 
ever  pay,  if  we  owe  him  such  a load  as  this.”  “ Two  hun- 
dred and  forty  millions  of  debt ! ” cried  all  the  statesmen  of 
1783  in  chorus ; “ what  abilities,  or  what  economy  on  the  part 
of  a minister,  can  save  a country  so  burdened?  ” We  know 
that  if,  since  1783,  no  fresh  debt  had  been  incurred,  the  in- 
creased resources  of  the  country  would  have  enabled  as  io? 
defray  that  debt  at  which  Pitt,  Fox,  and  Burke  stood  aghast, 
nay,  to  defray  it  over  and  over  again,  and  that  with  mud 
lighter  taxation  than  what  we  have  actually  borne.  On 
what  principle  is  it  tnat,  when  we  see  nothing  but  im- 
provement behind  us,  w^e  are  to  expect  nothing  but  deteri- 
oration before  us  ? 

It  is  not  by  the  intermeddling  of  Mr.  Southey’s  idol,  the 
omniscient  and  omnipotent  State,  but  by  the  prudence  and 
energy  of  the  people,  that  England  has  hitherto  been  carried 
forward  in  civilization  ; and  it  is  to  the  same  prudence  and 
the  same  energy  that  we  now  look  with  comfort  and  good 
hope.  Our  rulers  will  best  promote  the  improvement  of  the 
nation  by  strictly  confining  themselves  to  their  own  legiti- 
mate duties,  by  leaving  capital  to  find  its  most  lucrative 
course,  commodities  their  fair  price,  industry  and  intelligence 
their  natural  reward,  idleness  and  folly  their  natural  punish- 
ment, maintaining  peace,  by  defending  property,  by  dimin- 
ishing the  price  of  law,  and  by  observing  strict  economy  in 
every  department  of  the  state.  Let  the  Government  do 
this  : the  People  will  assuredly  do  the  rest. 


MR.  RORERT  MONTGOMERY. 


615 


MR.  ROBERT  MONTGOMERY.* 

{Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1830.) 

The  wise  men  of  antiquity  loved  to  convey  instruction 
under  the  covering  of  apologue ; and  though  this  practice  is 
generally  thought  cJiildish,  we  shall  make  no  apology  for 
adopting  it  on  the  present  occasion.  A generation  which 
has  eleven  editions  of  a poem  by  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery 
may  well  condescend  to  listen  to  a fable  of  Pilpay. 

A pious  Brahmin,  it  is  written,  made  a vow  that  on  a 
certain  day  lie  would  sacrifice  a sheep,  and  on  the  appointed 
morning  he  went  forth  to  buy  one.  There  lived  in  his 
neighborhood  three  rogues  who  knew  of  his  vow,  and  laid  a 
scheme  for  profiting  by  it.  The  first  met  him  and  said,  ‘‘  Oh 
Brahmin,  wilt  thou  buy  a sheep  ? I have  one  fit  for  sac- 
rifice. ” “ It  is  for  that  very  purpose,”  said  the  holy  man, 

‘‘  that  I came  forth  this  day.”  Then  the  impostor  opened 
a bag,  and  brought  out  of  it  an  unclean  beast,  an  ugly  dog, 
lame  and  blind.  Thereon  the  Brahmin  cried  out,  “ Wretch, 
who  touchest  things  impure,  and  utterest  things  untrue, 
callest  thou  that  cur  a sheep  ? ” “ Truly,”  answered  the 

other,  “ it  is  a sheep  of  the  finest  fleece,  and  of  the  sweetest 
flesh.  Oh  Brahmin,  it  will  be  an  offering  most  acceptable 
to  the  gods.  ” “ Friend,”  said  the  Brahmin,  “ either  thou 

or  I must  be  blind.” 

Just  then  one  of  the  accomplices  came  up.  “ Praised  be 
the  gods,”  said  this  second  rogue,  ‘‘  that  I have  been  saved 
the  trouble  of  going  to  the  market  for  a sheep  ! This  is 
such  a sheep  as  I wanted.  For  how  much  wilt  thou  sell  it  ? ” 
When  the  Brahmin  heard  this,  his  mind  waved  to  and  fro, 
like  one  swinging  in  the  air  at  a holy  festival.  “ Sir,”  said 
he  to  the  new  comer,  “ take  heed  what  thou  dost ; this  is 
no  sheep,  but  an  unclean  cur.”  ‘‘  Oh  Brahmin,”  said  the 
new  comer,  ‘‘  thou  art  drunk  or  mad ! ” 

At  this  time  the  third  confederate  drew  near.  “Lei 
us  ask  this  man,”  said  the  Brahmin,  “ what  the  creature  is, 
and  I will  stand  by  what  he  shall  say.”  To  this  the  others 

* 1.  The  Omnipresence  of  the  Deity:  a Poem.  By  Robert  Montgomery, 
Eleventh  Edition.  London ; 1830. 

2.  Satan:  a Poem.  By  Robert  Montgomery.  Second  Edition.  London: 
1830. 


616 


MACATILAT’s  MTSCEM.ANEOtrS  -n-RlTINQS. 


1 


agreed  ; and  the  Brahmin  called  out,  “ Oh  strangor,  wh&t 
dost  thou  call  this  beast?”  “Surely,  oh  Brahmin,”  said 
the  knave,  “ it  is  a fine  sheep.”  Then  the  Brahmin  said, 
“ Surely  the  gods  have  taken  away  my  senses ; ” and  he 
asked  pardon  of  him  who  carried  the  dog,  and  bouglit  it  for 
a measure  of  rice  and  a pot  of  ghee,  and  offered  it  up  to  the 
gods,  who,  being  wroth  at  this  unclean  sacrifice,  smote  L’m 
with  a sore  disease  in  all  his  joints. 

Thus,  or  nearly  thus,  if  we  remember  rightly,  runs  the 
story  of  the  Sanscrit  -^sop.  The  moral,  like  the  moral  of 
every  fable  that  is  worth  the  telling,  lies  on  the  surface. 
The  writer  evidently  means  to  caution  us  against  the  prac- 
tices of  puffers,  a class  of  people  who  have  more  than  once 
talked  the  public  into  the  most  absurd  errors,  but  who  surely 
never  played  a more  curious  or  a more  difficult  trick  than 
when  they  passed  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  off  upon  the 
world  as  a great  poet. 

In  an  age  in  which  there  are  so  few  readers  that  a writer 
cannot  subsist  on  the  sum  arising  from  the  sale  of  his  works, 
no  man  who  has  not  an  independent  fortune  can  devote 
himself  to  literary  pursuits,  unless  he  is  assisted  by  patron- 
age. In  such  an  age,  accordingly,  men  of  letters  too  often 
pass  their  lives  in  dangling  at  the  heels  of  the  wealthy  and 
powerful ; and  all  the  faults  which  dependence  tends  to  pro- 
duce, pass  into  their  character.  They  become  the  parasites 
and  slaves  of  the  great.  It  is  melancholy  to  think  how 
many  of  the  highest  and  most  exquisitely  formed  of  human 
intellects  have  been  condemned  to  the  ignominous  labor  of 
disposing  the  commonplaces  of  adulation  in  new  forms  and 
brightening  them  into  new  splendor.  Horace  invoking 
Augustus  in  the  most  enthusiastic  language  of  religious  ven- 
eration, Statius  flattering  a tyrant,  and  the  minion  of  8 
tyrant,  for  a morsel  of  bread,  Ariosto  versifying  the  whole 
genealogy  of  a niggardly  patron,  Tasso  extolling  the  heroic 
virtues  of  the  wretched  creature  who  locked  him  up  in  a 
mad-house,  these  are  but  a few  of  the  instances  which  might 
easily  be  giveii  of  the  degradation  to  which  those  must  sub- 
mit who,  not  possessing  a competent  forlmie,  are  resolved 
to  write  when  there  are  scarcely  any  wffio  read. 

This  evil  the  progress  of  the  human  mind  tends  to  re- 
move. As  a taste  for  books  becomes  more  and  more  com- 
mon, the  patronage  of  individuals  becomes  less  and  less 
necessary.  In  the  middle  of  the  last  century  a marked 
change  took  place.  The  tone  of  literary  men,  both  in  this 


MR.  ROBERT  MONTGOMERY. 


517 


country  and  in  France,  became  higher  and  more  indepen- 
dent. Pope  boasted  that  he  was  the  “ one  poet  ” who  had 
pleased  by  manly  ways ; ” he  derided  the  soft  dedications 
with  which  Halifax  had  been  fed,  asserted  his  own  superior- 
ity over  the  pensioned  Boileau,  and  gloried  in  being  not  the 
follower,  but  the  friend,  of  nobles  and  princes.  The  explana- 
tion of  all  this  is  very  simple.  Pope  was  the  first  English- 
man who,  by  the  mere  sale  of  his  writings,  realized  a sum 
which  enabled  him  to  live  in  comfort  and  in  perfect  inde- 
pendence. Johnson  extols  him  for  the  magnanimity  which 
he  showed  in  inscribing  his  Iliad  not  to  a minister  or  a peer, 
but  to  Congreve.  In  our  time  this  would  scarcely  be  a sub- 
ject for  praise.  Nobody  is  astonished  when  Mr.  Moore  pays 
a compliment  of  this  kind  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  to  Mr.  Moore.  The  idea  of  either  of  those  gentle- 
men looking  out  for  some  lord  who  would  be  likely  to  give 
him  a few  guineas  in  return  for  a fulsome  dedication  seems 
laughably  incongruous.  Yet  this  is  exactly  what  Dryden 
or  Otway  would  have  done ; and  it  would  be  hard  to  blame 
them  for  it.  Otway  is  said  to  have  been  choked  v/ith  a 
piece  of  bread  which  he  devoured  in  the  rage  of  hunger ; 
and,  whether  this  story  be  true  or  false,  he  was  beyond  all 
question  miserably  poor.  Dryden,  at  near  seventy,  when  at 
the  head  of  the  literary  men  of  England,  without  equal  or 
second,  received  three  hundred  pounds  for  his  Fables,  a col- 
lection of  ten  thousand  verses,  and  of  such  verses  as  no  man 
then  living,  except  himself,  could  have  produced.  Pope,  at 
thirty,  had  laid  up  between  six  and  seven  thousand  pounds, 
the  fruits  of  his  poetry.  It  was  not,  we  suspect,  because  he 
had  a higher  spirit  or  a more  scrupulous  conscience  than 
his  predecessors,  but  because  he  had  a larger  income,  that 
he  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  literary  character  so  much 
better  than  they  had  done. 

From  the  time  of  Pope  to  the  present  day  the  readers 
have  been  constantly  becoming  more  and  more  numerous, 
and  the  writers,  consequently,  more  and  more  independent. 
It  is  assuredly  a great  evil  that  men,  fitted  by  their  talents 
and  acquirements  to  enlighten  and  charm  the  world,  should 
be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  flattering  wicked  and  foolish 
patrons  in  return  for  the  sustenance  of  life.  But,  though 
we  heartily  rejoice  that  this  evil  is  removed,  we  cannot  but 
see  with  concern  that  another  evil  has  succeeded  to  it.  The 
public  is  now  the  patron,  and  a most  liberal  patron.  All 
that  the  rich  and  powerful  bestowed  on  authors  from  the 


518 


MACAULAY MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


time  of  Maecenas  to  tliat  of  Harley  would  not,  we  appre- 
hend, make  up  a sum  equal  to  that  which  has  been  ])aid  by 
English  booksellers  to  authors  during  the  last  fifty  years. 
Men  of  letters  have  accordingly  ceased  to  court  individuals, 
and  have  begun  to  court  tlib  public.  They  formerly  used 
flattery.  They  now  use  puffing. 

Whether  the  old  or  the  new  vice  be  the  worse,  whether 
those  who  formerly  lavished  insincere  praise  on  others,  or 
those  who  now  contrive  by  every  art  of  beggary  and 
bribery  to  stun  the  public  with  praises  of  themselves,  dis- 
grace their  vocation  the  more  deeply,  we  shall  not  attempt 
to  decide.  But  of  this  we  arc  sure,  that  it  is  high  time  to 
make  a stand  against  the  new  trickery.  The  puffing  of 
books  is  now  so  shamefully  and  so  successfully  carried  on 
that  it  is  the  duty  of  all  who  are  anxious  for  the  purity  of 
the  national  taste,  or  for  the  honor  of  the  literary  character, 
to  join  in  discountenancing  the  practice.  All  the  pens  that 
ever  were  employed  in  magnifying  Bish’s  lucky  office, 
Romanis’s  fleecy  hosiery,  Packwouod’s  razor  strops,  and 
Rowland’s  Kalydor,  all  the  placard-bearers  of  Dr.  Eady,  all 
the  wall-chalkers  of  Day  and  Martin,  seem  to  have  taken 
service  with  the  poets  and  novelists  of  this  generation.  De- 
vices which  in  the  lowest  trades  are  considered  as  disrepu- 
table are  adopted  without  scruple,  and  improved  upon  with 
a despicable  ingenuity,  by  people  engaged  in  a pursuit 
which  never  was  and  never  will  be  considered  as  a mere 
trade  by  any  man  of  honor  and  virtue.  A butcher  of  the 
higher  class  disdains  to  ticket  his  meat.  A mercer  of  the 
higher  class  would  be  ashamed  to  hang  up  papers  in  his 
window  inviting  the  passers-by  to  look  at  the  stock  of  a 
bankrupt,  all  of  the  first  quality,  and  going  for  half  the 
value.  We  expect  some  reserve,  some  decent  pride,  in  our 
hatter  and  our  bootmaker.  But  no  artifice  by  which  no- 
toriety can  be  obtained  is  thought  too  abject  for  a man  of 
letters. 

It  is  amusing  to  think  over  the  history  of  most  of  the 
publications  which  have  had  a run  during  the  last  few  years 
The  publisher  is  often  the  publisher  of  some  periodical  work 
In  this  periodical  work  the  first  flourish  of  trumpets  it 
sounded.  The  peal  is  then  echoed  and  re-echoed  by  all  th€ 
other  periodical  works  over  which  the  publisher,  or  th« 
author,  or  the  author’s  coterie,  may  have  any  influence.  Th( 
newspapers  are  for  a fortnight  filled  with  puffs  of  all  th( 
various  kinds  which  Sheridan  enumerated,  direct,  oblique 


ME.  EGBERT  MONTGOMEEY. 


519 


smd  collusive.  Sometimes  the  praise  is  laid  on  thick  for 
simple-minded  people.  Patlietic,”  “ sublime,”  splendid,” 
“graceful,”  “ brilliant  wit,”  “exquisite  humor,”  and  other 
phrases  equally  flattering,  fall,  in  a shower  as  thick  and  as 
sweet  as  the  sugar-plums  at  a Roman  carnival.  Sometimes 
greater  art  is  used.  A sinecure  has  been  offered  to  the 
writer  if  he  would  suppress  his  work,  or  if  he  would  even 
soften  down  a few  of  his  incomparable  portraits.  A dis- 
tinguished military  and  political  character  has  challenged 
th 3 inimitable  satirist  of  the  vices  of  the  great;  and  the 
puffer  is  glad  to  learn  that  the  parties  have  been  bound  over 
to  keep  the  peace.  Sometimes  it  is  thought  expedient  that 
the  puffer  should  put  on  a grave  face,  and  utter  his  pane- 
gyric in  the  form  of  admonition.  “ Such  attacks  on  private 
character  cannot  be  too  much  condemned.  Even  the  ex- 
uberant wit  of  our  author,  and  the  irresistible  power  of  his 
withering  sarcasm,  are  no  excuses  for  that  utter  disregard 
which  he  manifests  for  the  feelings  of  others.  We  cannot 
but  wonder  that  a writey  of  such  transcendent  talents,  a 
writer  who  is  evidently  no  stranger  to  the  kindly  charities 
and  sensibilities  of  our  nature,  should  show  so  little  tender- 
ness to  the  foibles  of  noble  and  distinguished  individuiils, 
with  whom  it  is  clear,  from  every  page  of  his  work,  that  he 
must  have  been  constantly  mingling  in  society.”  These  are 
but  tame  and  feeble  imitations  of  the  paragraphs  with  which 
the  daily  papers  are  filled  whenever  an  attorney’s  clerk  or 
an  apothecary’s  assistant  undertakes  to  tell  the  public  in  bad 
English  and  worse  French,  how  people  tie  their  neckcloths 
and  eat  their  dinners  in  Grosvenor  Square.  The  editors  of 
the  higher  and  more  respectable  newspapers  usually  prefix 
the  words  “ Advertisement,”  or  “ From  a CorresjDondent,” 
to  such  paragraphs.  But  this  makes  little  difference.  The 
panegyric  is  extracted,  and  the  significant  heading  omitted. 
The  fulsome  eulogy  makes  its  appearance  on  the  covers  of 
all  the  Reviews  and  Magazines,  with  “ Times  ” or  “ Globe  ” 
affixed,  though  the  editors  of  the  Times  and  the  Globe  have 
no  more  to  do  with  it  than  with  Mr.  Goss’s  way  of  making 
old  rakes  young  again. 

That  people  who  live  by  personal  slander  should  practise 
these  arts  is  not  surprising.  Those  who  stoop  to  write 
calumnious  books  may  well  stoop  to  puff  them ; and  that 
the  basest  of  all  trades  should  be  carried  on  in  the  basest  of 
all  manners  is  quite  proper  and  as  it  should  be.  But  how 
any  man  who  has  tho  least  self-respect,  the  least  regard  for 


620 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


his  own  personal  dignity,  can  condescend  to  persecute  the 
public  with  this  Kag-fair  importunity,  we  do  not  understand 
Extreme  poverty  may,  indeed,  in  some  degree,  be  some  ex- 
cuse for  employing  these  shifts,  as  it  may  be  an  excuse  for 
stealing  a leg  of  mutton.  But  we  really  think  that  a man 
of  spirit  and  delicacy  would  quite  as  soon  satisfy  his  wants 
in  the  one  way  as  in  the  other. 

It  is  no  excuse  for  an  author  that  the  praises  of  journal- 
ists are  procured  by  the  money  or  influence  of  his  publishers, 
and  not  by  his  own.  It  is  his  business  to  take  such  precautions 
as  to  prevent  others  from  doing  what  must  degrade  him.  It 
is  for  his  honor  as  a gentleman,  and,  if  he  is  really  a man  of 
talents,  it  will  eventually  be  for  his  honor  and  interest  as  a 
writer,  that  his  works  should  come  before  the  public  recom- 
mended by  their  own  merits  alone,  and  should  be  discussed 
with  perfect  freedom.  If  his  objects  be  really  such  as  he 
may  own  without  shame,  he  will  find  that  they  will,  in  the 
long  run,  be  better  attended  by  suffering  the  voice  of  criti- 
cism to  be  fairly  heard.  At  present,  we  too  often  see  a 
writer  attempting  to  obtain  literary  fame  as  Shakspeare’s 
usurper  obtains  sovereignty.  The  publisher  plays  Bucking- 
ham to  the  author’s  Richard.  Some  few  creatures  of  the 
conspiracy  are  dexterously  disposed  here  and  there  in  the 
crowd.  It  is  the  business  of  these  hirelings  to  throw  up 
their  caps,  and  clap  their  hands,  and  utter  their  vivas.  The 
rabble  at  first  stare  and  wonder,  and  at  last  join  in  shouting 
for  shouting’s  sake  ; and  thus  a crown  is  placed  on  a head 
which  has  no  right  to  it,  by  the  huzzas  of  a few  servile  de- 
pendents. 

The  opinion  of  the  great  body  of  the  reading  public  is 
very  materially  influenced  by  the  unsupported  assertions  of 
those  who  assume  a right  to  criticize.  Nor  is  the  public 
altogether  to  blame  on  this  account.  Most  even  of  those 
who  have  really  a great  enjoyment  in  reading  are  in  the 
same  state,  with  respect  to  a book,  in  which  a man  who  has 
never  given  particular  attention  to  the  art  of  painting  is 
with  respect  to  a picture.  Every  man  who  has  the  least 
sensibility  or  imagination  derives  a certain  pleasure  from 
pictures.  Yet  a man  of  the  highest  and  finest  intellect 
might,  unless  he  had  formed  his  taste  by  contemplating  the 
best  pictures,  be  easily  persuaded  by  a knot  of  connoisseurs 
that  the  w^orst  daub  in  Somerset  House  was  a miracle  of  art. 
If  he  deserves  to  be  laughed  at,  it  is  not  for  his  ignorance  ol 
pictures,  but  for  his  ignorance  of  men.  He  knows  that  there 


MR.  ROBERT  MONTGOAmilY. 


521 


is  a delicacy  of  taste  in  painting  whicli  he  does  not  possess, 
that  he  cannot  distinguisli  liands,  as  practised  judges  dis- 
tinguish them,  that  he  is  not  familiar  with  the  finest  models, 
that  he  has  never  looked  at  them  with  close  attention,  and 
that,  when  the  general  effect  of  a piece  has  pleased  him  or 
displeased  him,  he  has  never  troubled  himself  to  ascertain 
why.  When,  therefore,  people  whom  he  thinks  more  com- 
petent judges  than  himself,  and  of  whose  sincerity  he  enter- 
tains no  doubt,  assure  him  that  a particular  work  is  exquis- 
itely beautiful,  he  takes  it  for  granted  that  they  must  be  in 
the  right.  He  returns  to  the  examination,  resolved  to  find 
or  imagine  beauties ; and,  if  he  can  work  himself  up  into 
something  like  admiration,  he  exults  in  his  own  proficiency. 

Just  such  is  the  manner  in  which  nine  readers  out  of  ten 
judge  of  a book.  They  are  ashamed  to  dislike  what  men 
who  speak  as  having  authority  declare  to  be  good.  At 
present,  however  contemptible  a poem  or  a novel  may  be, 
there  is  not  the  least  difficulty  in  procuring  favorable  notices 
of  it  from  all  sorts  of  publications,  daily,  weekly,  and 
monthly.  In  the  mean  time,  little  or  nothing  is  said  on  the 
other  side.  The  author  and  the  publisher  are  interested  in 
crying  up  the  book.  Nobody  has  any  very  strong  interest 
in  crying  it  down.  Those  who  are  best  fitted  to  guide  the 
public  opinion  think  it  beneath  them  to  expose  mere  non- 
sense, and  comfort  themselves  by  reflecting  that  such  popu- 
larity cannot  last.  This  contemptuous  lenity  has  been  car- 
ried too  far.  It  is  j>erfectly  true  that  reputations  which 
have  been  forced  into  an  unnatural  bloom  fade  almost  as 
soon  as  they  have  expanded ; nor  have  we  any  apprehensions 
that  pufiing  will  ever  raise  any  scribbler  to  the  rank  of  a 
classic.  It  is  indeed  amusing  to  turn  over  some  late  volumes 
( f periodical  works,  and  to  see  how  many  immortal  produc- 
tions have,  within  a few  months,  been  gathered  to  the 
Poems  of  Blackmore  and  the  novels  of  Mrs.  Behn  ; “ how 
many  profound  views  of  human  nature,”  and  “ exquisite 
delineations  of  fashionable  manners,”  and  “ vernal,  and 
sunny,  and  refreshing  thoughts,”  and  “ high  imaginings,” 
and  “ young  breathings,”  and  “ embodyings,”  and  “ pin- 
ings,”  and  ‘‘  minglings  with  the  beauty  of  the  universe,”  and 
“ harmonies  which  dissolve  the  soul  in  a passionate  sense  of 
loveliness  and  divinity,”  the  world  has  contrived  to  forget. 
The  names  of  the  books  and  of  the  writers  are  buried  in  as 
deep  an  oblivion  as  the  name  of  the  builder  of  Stonehenge. 
Some  of  the  well  puffed  fashionable  novels  of  eighteen  hun* 


522 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


dred  and  twenty-nine  liold  the  pastry  of  eigliteen  hundred 
and  tliirty ; and  otliers,  which  are  now  extolled  in  lanp^uage 
almost  too  high-flown  for  the  merit  of  Don  Quixote,  will,  wo 
have  no  doubt,  line  the  trunks  of  eighteen  hundred  and 
thirty-one.  But,  though  we  have  no  apprehensions  that 
pufling  will  ever  confer  permanent  reputation  on  the  unde- 
serving, we  still  think  its  influence  most  pernicious.  Men 
of  real  merit  will,  if  they  persevere,  at  last  reach  the  station 
to  which  they  are  entitled,  and  intruders  will  be  ejected 
with  contempt  and  derision.  But  it  is  no  small  evil  that 
the  avenues  to  fame  should  be  blocked  up  by  a swarm  of 
noisy,  pushing,  elbowing  pretenders,  who,  though  they  will 
not  ultimately  be  able  to  make  good  their  own  entrance,  hin- 
der, in  the  mean  time,  those  who  have  a right  to  enter.  All 
who  wdll  not  disgrace  themselves  by  joining  in  the  unseemly 
scuffle  must  expect  to  be  at  first  hustled  and  shouldered 
back.  Some  men  of  talents,  accordingly,  turn  away  in  de- 
jection from  pursuits  in  which  success  appears  to  bear  no 
proportion  to  desert.  Others  employ  in  self-defence  the 
means  by  which  competitors,  far  inferior  to  themselves,  ap- 
pear for  a time  to  obtain  a decided  advantage.  There  are 
few  who  have  suffleient  confidence  in  their  own  powers  and 
suffleient  elevation  of  mind  to  wait  with  secure  and  contemp- 
tuous patience,  while  dunce  after  dunce  presses  before  them. 
Those  who  will  not  stoop  to  the  baseness  of  the  modern 
fashion  are  too  often  discouraged.  Those  who  stoop  to  it 
are  always  degraded. 

We  have  of  late  observed  with  great  pleasure  some 
symi:)toms  which  lead  us  to  hope  that  respectable  literary 
men  of  all  parties  are  beginning  to  be  impatient  of  this  in- 
sufferable nuisance.  And  we  propose  to  do  what  in  us  lies 
for  the  abating  of  it.  We  do  not  think  that  we  can  more 
usefully  assist  in  this  good  work  than  by  showing  our  hon- 
est countrymen  what  that  sort  of  poetry  is  which  pufflng  can 
drive  through  eleven  editions,  and  how  easy  any  bellman 
might,  if  a bellman  would  stoop  to  the  necessary  degree  of 
meanness,  become  a “ master-spirit  of  the  age.”  We  have 
no  enmity  to  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery.  We  know  nothing 
whatever  about  him,  except  what  we  have  learned  from  his 
books,  and  from  the  portrait  prefixed  to  one  of  them,  in 
which  he  appears  to  be  doing  his  very  best  to  look  like  a 
man  of  genius  and  sensibility,  though  with  less  success  than 
his  strenuous  exertions  deserve.  We  select  him,  because 
his  works  have  received  more  enthusiastic  praise,  and  have 


mt.  ROfiERT  MONTGOMERY. 


523 


deserved  more  unmixed  contempt,  than  any  which,  as  far  as 
our  knowledge  extends,  have  appeared  within  the  last  three 
or  four  years.  Ills  writing  bears  the  same  relation  to  poetry 
which  the  Turkey  carpet  bears  to  a picture.  There  are 
colors  in  a Turkey  carpet  ou-t  of  which  a picture  might  be 
made.  There  are  words  in  Mr.  Montgomery’s  writing, 
which,  when  disposed  in  certain  orders  and  combinations, 
Iin  ve  made,  and  will  again  make,  good  poetry.  But,  as  they 
now  stand,  they  seem  to  be  put  together  on  principle  in 
such  a manner  as  to  give  no  image  of  anything  “ in  the 
heavens  above,  or  in  the  earth  beneath,  or  in  the  waters 
under  the  earth.” 

The  poem  on  the  Omnipresence  of  the  Deity  commences 
with  a description  of  the  creation,  in  which  we  can  find  only 
one  thought  which  has  the  least  pretension  to  ingenuity, 
and  that  one  thought  is  stolen  from  Dryden,  and  marred 
in  the  stealing ; 

“ Last,  softly  beautiful  as  music’s  close, 

Angelic  woman  into  being  rose.” 

The  all-pervading  influence  of  the  Supreme  Being  is  then 
described  in  a few  tolerable  lines  borrowed  from  Pope, 
and  a great  many  intolerable  lines  of  Mr  Robert  Mont- 
gomery’s own.  The  following  may  stand  as  a siDecimen : 

“ But  who  could  trace  Thine  unrestricted  course, 

Though  Fancy  follow’d  with  immortal  force  ? 

There’s  not  a blossom  fondled  by  the  breeze, 

There’s  not  a fruit  that  beautifies  the  trees, 

There’s  not  a particle  in  sea  or  air, 

But  nature  owns  thy  plastic  influence  there  I 
With  fearful  gaze,  still  be  it  mine  to  see 
How  all  is  fill’d  and  vivified  by  Thee; 

Upon  thy  mirror,  earth’s  majestic  view, 

To  paint  Thy  Presence,  and  to  feel  it  too.” 

The  last  two  lines  contain  an  excellent  specimen  of  Mr. 
Robert  Montgomery’s  Turkey-carpet  style  of  writing.  The 
majestic  view  of  earth  is  the  mirror  of  God’s  presence  ; and 
on  this  mirror  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  paints  God’s  pres- 
ence. The  use  of  a mirror,  we  submit,  is  not  to  be  painted 
upon. 

A few  more  lines,  as  bad  as  those  which  we  have  quoted, 
bring  us  to  one  of  the  most  amusing  instances  of  literary 
pilfering  which  we  remember.  It  might  be  of  use  to  pla- 
giarists to  know,  as  a general  rule,  that  what  they  steal  is,  to 
employ  a phrase  common  in  advertisements,  of  no  use  to 
any  but  the  right  owner.  We  never  fell  in,  however,  with 


524  MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

any  blunderer  who  so  little  understood  how  to  turn  his  booty 
to  good  account  as  Mr.  Montgomery.  Lord  Byron,  in  a 
passage  which  everybody  knows  by  heart,  has  said,  address- 
ing the  sea, 

“ Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow.** 

Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  very  coolly  appropriates  the  image 
and  reproduces  the  stolen  goods  in  the  following  form : 

“ And  thou,  vast  Ocean,  on  whose  awful  face 
Time’s  iron  feet  can  print  no  ruin-trace.” 

So  may  such  ill  got  gains  ever  prosper ! 

The  effect  which  the  Ocean  produces  on  Atheists  is  then 
described  in  the  following  lofty  lines : 

“ Oh  ! never  did  the  dark-soul’ d Atheist  stand, 

And  watch  the  breakers  boiling  on  the  strand, 

And,  while  Creation  stagger’d  at  his  nod. 

Mock  the  dread  presence  of  the  mighty  God  I 
We  hear  Him  in  the  wind-heaved  ocean’s  roar, 

Hurling  her  billowy  crags  upon  the  shore  ; 

We  hear  Him  in  the  riot  of  the  blast, 

And  shake,  's^hile  rush  the  raving  whirlwinds  past  ! ** 

If  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery’s  genius  were  not  far  too  free 
and  aspiring  to  be  shackled  by  the  rules  of  syntax,  we  should 
suppose  that  it  is  at  the  nod  of  the  Atheist  that  creation 
staggers.  But  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery’s  readers  must  take 
such  grammar  as  they  can  get,  and  be  thankful. 

A few  more  lines  bring  us  to  another  instance  of  unprofit- 
able theft.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  these  lines  in  the  Lord 
of  the  Isles : 

“ The  dew  that  on  the  violet  lies 
Mocks  the  dark.lustre  of  thine  eyes.** 

This  is  pretty,  taken  separately,  and,  as  is  always  the 
case  with  the  good  things  of  good  writers,  much  prettier  in 
its  place  than  can  even  be  conceived  by  those  who  sec  it 
only  detached  from  the  context.  Now  for  Mr.  Montgomery : 

“ And  the  bright  dew-bead  on  the  bramble  lies. 

Like  liquid  rapture  upon  beauty’s  eyes.” 

The  comparison  of  a violet,  bright  with  the  dew,  to  a 
woman’s  eyes,  is  as  perfect  as  a comparison  can  be.  Sir 
Walter’s  lines  are  part  of  a song  addressed  to  a woman  at 
daybreak,  when  the  violets  are  bathed  in  dew ; and  the  com- 
parison is  therefore  peculiarly  natural  and  graceful.  Dew 
on  a bramble  is  no  more  like  a woman’s  eyes  than  dew  any- 
where else.  There  is  a very  pretty  Eastern  tale  of  wnlch 
the  fate  of  plagiarists  often  reminds  us.  The  slave  of  a 


MR.  RORRRT  MOl^TGOMERi?'. 


625 


magician  saw  his  master  wave  liis  wand,  and  heard  him 
give  orders  to  the  spirits  who  arose  at  the  summons.  The 
slave  stole  the  wand,  and  waved  it  himself  in  the  air ; but 
he  had  not  observed  that  his  master  used  the  left  hand  for 
that  purpose.  The  spirits  thus  irregularly  summoned  tore 
the  thief  to  pieces  instead  of  obeying  his  orders.  There  are 
very  few  who  can  safely  venture  to  conjure  with  the  rod  of 
Sir  Walter:  and  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  is  not  one  of 
them. 

Mr.  Campbell,  in  one  of  his  most  pleasing  pieces,  has 
this  line, 

“The  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky.** 

The  thought  is  good,  and  has  a very  striking  propriety 
where  Mr.  Campbell  has  placed  it,  in  the  mouth  of  a soldier 
telling  his  dream.  But,  though  Shakspeare  assures  us  that 
“ every  true  man’s  apparel  fits  your  thief,”  it  is  by  no  means 
the  case,  as  we  have  already  seen,  that  every  true  poet’s 
similitude  fits  your  plagiarist.  Let  us  see  how  Mr.  Robert 
Montgomery  uses  the  image  : 

“ Ye  quenchless  stars  ! so  eloquently  bright, 

Untroubled  sentries  of  the  shadowy  night, 

While  half  the  world  is  lapp’d  in  downy  dreams, 

And  round  the  lattice  creep  your  midnight  beams, 

How  sweet  to  gaze  upon  your  placid  eyes. 

In  lambent  beauty  looking  from  the  skies.’* 

Certainly  the  ideas  of  eloquence,  of  untroubled  repose, 
of  placid  eyes,  on  the  lambent  beauty  of  which  it  is  sweet 
to  gaze,  harmonize  admirably  with  the  idea  of  a sentry. 

We  would  not  be  understood,  however,  to  say,  that  Mr. 
Robert  Montgomery  cannot  make  similitudes  for  himself.  A 
very  few  lines  further  on,  we  find  one  which  has  every 
mark  of  originality,  and  on  which,  we  will  be  bound,  none  of 
the  poets  whom  he  has  ^dundered  will  ever  think  of  making 
reprisals : 

“ The  soul,  aspiring,  pants  its  source  to  mount. 

As  streams  meander  level  with  their  fount.’’ 

We  take  this  to  be,  on  the  whole,  the  worst  similitude 
in  the  world.  In  the  first  place,  no  stream  meanders,  or 
can  possibly  meander,  level  with  its  fount.  In  the  next 
place,  if  streams  did  meander  level  with  their  founts,  nc 
two  motions  can  be  less  like  each  other  than  that  of  meander^ 
ing  level  and  that  of  mounting  upwards. 

We  have  than  an  apostrophe  to  the  Deity,  couched  m 
terms  which,  in  any  writer  who  dealt  in  meanings,  w® 


526  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

should  call  profane,  but  to  which  we  suppose  Mr.  Robert 
Montgomery  attaches  no  idea  whatever. 

“ Yes  ! pause  and  tliink,  \vithin  one  fleeting  hour, 

How  vast  a universe  obeys  Thy  power  ; 

Unseen,  but  felt,  Thine  interfused  control 
Works  in  each  atom,  and  pervades  the  whole  ; 

Expands  the  blossom,  and  erects  the  tree, 

Conducts  such  vapor,  and  commands  each  sea, 

Beams  in  each  ray,  bids  whirlwinds  be  unfurl’d. 

Unrolls  the  thunder,  and  upheaves  a world  ! ” 

No  field-preacher  surely  ever  carried  his  irreverent  famil- 
iarity so  far  as  to  bid  the  Supreme  Being  stop  and  think  on 
the  importance  of  the  interests  which  are  under  his  care. 
The  grotesque  indecency  of  such  an  address  throws  into 
shade  the  subordinate  absurdities  of  the  passage,  the  un- 
furling of  whirlwinds,  the  unrolling  of  thunder,  and  the 
upheaving  of  worlds. 

Then  comes  a curious  specimen  of  our  poet’s  English  : — 

“ Yet  not  alone  created  realms  engage 
Thy  faultless  wisdom,  grand,  primeval  sage  ! 

For  all  the  thronging  woes  to  life  allied 
Thy  mercy  tempers,  and  Thy  cares  provide.” 

We  should  be  glad  to  know  what  the  word  For  ” means 
here.  If  it  is  a preposition,  it  makes  nonsense  of  the  words, 
“ Thy  mercy  tempers.”  If  it  is  an  adverb,  it  makes  non- 
sense of  the  words,  “ Thy  cares  provide.” 

These  beauties  we  have  taken,  almost  at  random,  from 
the  first  part  of  the  poem.  The  second  part  is  a series  of  de- 
scriptions of  various  events,  a battle,  a murder,  an  execu- 
tion, a marriage,  a funeral,  and  so  forth.  Mr.  Robert 
Montgomery  terminates  each  of  these  descriptions  by  as- 
suring us  that  the  Deity  was  present  at  the  battle,  murder, 
execution,  marriage,  or  funeral  in  question.  And  this  prop- 
osition, which  might  be  safely  predicated  of  every  event 
that  ever  happened  or  ever  will  happen,  forms  the  only  link 
which  connects  these  descriptions  with  the  subject  or  with 
each  other. 

How  the  descriptions  are  executed  our  readers  are  prob- 
ably by  this  time  able  to  conjecture.  The  battle  is  made 
up  of  the  battles  of  all  ages  and  nations : “ red-mouthed 
cannons,  uproaring  to  the  clouds,”  and  ‘‘hands  grasping 
firm  the  glittering  shield.”  The  only  military  operations  of 
which  this  part  of  the  poem  reminds  us,  are  those  which 
reduced  the  Abbey  of  Quedlinburgh  to  submission,  the 
Templar  with  his  cross,  the  Austrian  and  Prussian  grem 


MR.  ROBERT  MONTGOMERY. 


527 


adiers  in  full  uniform,  and  Curtius  and  Dentatus  wkh  their 
battering-ram.  We  ought  not  to  pass  unnoticed  the  slain 
war-horse,  who  wnll  no  more 

“ Roll  his  red  eye,  and  rally  for  the  fight  ; ** 
or  the  slain  w^arrior  who,  while  “ lying  on  his  bleeding 
breast,”  contrives  to  ‘‘stare  ghastly  and  grimly  cn  the 
skies.”  As  to  this  last  exploit,  we  can  only  say,  as  Dante 
did  on  a similar  occasion, 

“ Forse  per  forza  gia  di’  parlasia 
Si  stravolse  cosi  alcun  del  tiitto  : 

Ma  io  nol  vidi,  nc  credo  che  sia.” 

The  tempest  is  thus  described : 

“ Blit  lo  ! around  the  marsh’lling  clouds  unite, 

Like  thick  battalions  halting  for  the  fight  ; 

Tlie  sun  sinks  back,  the  tempest  spirits  sweep 
Fierce  through  the  air,  and  flutter  on  the  deep. 

Till  from  tlieir  caverns  rush  the  maniac  masts, 

Tear  the  loose  sails,  and  split  the  creaking  masts. 

And  the  lash’d  billows,  rolling  in  a train. 

Rear  their  white  heads,  and  race  along  the  main  ! *' 

What,  we  should  like  to  know,  is  the  difference  between 
the  tw^o  operations  which  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  so  ac- 
curately distinguishes  from  each  other,  the  fierce  sweeping 
of  the  tempest-spirits  through  the  air,  and  the  rushing  of 
the  maniac  blasts  from  their  caverns  ? And  why  does  the 
former  operation  end  exactly  when  the  latter  commences  ? 

We  cannot  stop  over  each  of  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery’s 
descriptions.  We  have  a shipwrecked  sailor,  who  “visions 
a viewdess  temple  in  the  air  ; ” a murderer  who  stands  on 
a heath,  “ wdth  ashy  lips,  in  cold  convulsion  spread ; ” a pious 
man,  to  whom,  as  he  lies  in  bed  at  night, 

“ The  panorama  of  past  life  appears. 

Warms  his  pure  mind,  and  melts  it  into  tears  ; 

a traveller,  who  loses  his  way,  owing  to  the  thickness  of 
the  “cloud-battalion,”  and  the  want  of  “ heaven-lamps^  lo 
beam  their  holy  light.”  We  have  a description  of  a con- 
victed felon,  stolen  from  that  incomparable  passage  in 
Crabbe’s  Borough,  which  has  made  many  a rough  and 
cynical  reader  cry  like  a child.  We  can,  however,  con- 
scientiously declare  that  persons  of  the  most  excitable 
sensibility  may  safely  venture  upon  Mr.  Robert  Mont- 
gomery’s version.  Then  we  have  the  “ poor,  mindless,  pale- 
faced  maniac  boy,”  who 

‘Rolls  bis  vacant  eye, 

To  greet  the  globing  iaucieg  of  the  sky,'* 


1)28  macaulay’b  miscellaneous  writings* 

What  are  the  glowing  fancies  of  the  sky  ? And  what  is 
the  meaning  of  the  two  lines  which  almost  immediately 
follow  ? 

“ A soulless  thing,  a spirit  of  the  woods, 

He  loves  to  commune  with  the  fields  and  floods.** 

How  can  a soulless  thing  be  a spirit?  Then  comes  a pane- 
gyric on  the  Sunday.  A baptism  follows;  after  that  a 
marriage  : and  we  then  proceed,  in  due  course,  to  the  visit> 
tion  of  the  sick,  and  tlie  burial  of  the  dead. 

Often  as  Deatli  has  been  personified,  Mr.  Montgcmery 
has  found  something  new  to  say  about  him. 

' “ O death  ! though  dreadless  vanquisher  of  earth, 

The  Elements  shrank  blasted  at  thy  birth  ! 

Careering  round  the  world  like  tempest  wind, 

Martyrs  before,  and  victims  strew’d  behind  ; 

Ages  on  ages  cannot  grapple  thee. 

Dragging  the  world  into  eternity  ! ’* 

[f  there  be  any  one  line  in  this  passage  about  which  we  are 
more  in  the  dark  than  about  the  rest,  it  is  the  fourth.  What 
the  difference  may  be  between  the  victims  and  the  martyrs. 
And  why  the  martyrs  are  to  lie  before  Death,  and  the  victims 
behind  him,  are  to  us  great  mysteries. 

We  now  came  to  the  third  part,  of  which  we  may  say 
with  honest  Cassio,  “ Why,  this  is  a more  excellent  song 
than  the  other.”  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  is  very  severe 
on  the  infidels,  and  undertakes  to  prove,  that,  as  he  elegantly 
expresses  it, 

“ One  great  Enchanter  helm’d  the  harmonious  whole.** 

What  an  enchanter  has  to  do  with  helming,  or  what  a helm 
has  to  do  with  harmony,  he  does  not  explain.  He  proceeds 
with  his  argument  thus : 

“ And  dare  men  dream  that  dismal  Chance  has  framed 
All  that  the  eye  perceives,  or  tongue  has  named  ; 

The  spacious  world,  and  all  its  wonders,  bom 
Designless,  self-created,  and  forlorn  ; 

Like  to  the  flashing  bubbles  on  a stream. 

Fire  from  the  cloud,  or  phantom  in  a dream  ? ** 

We  should  be  sorry  to  stake  our  faith  in  a higher  Power  on 
Mr.  Robert  Montgomery’s  logic.  He  informs  us  that  light- 
ning is  designless  and  self-created.  If  he  can  believe  this, 
we  cannot  conceive  why  he  may  not  believe  that  the  whole 
universe  is  designless  and  self-created.  A few  lines  before, 
he  tells  us  that  it  is  the  Deity  who  bids  “ thunder  rattle 
from  the  skiey  deep.”  Ilis  theory  is  therefore  this,  that 
God  made  the  thunder,  but  that  the  lightning  made  itself. 


MU.  ROBEUT  MONTGOMERY. 


529 


But  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery’s  metaphysics  are  not  at 
present  our  game.  He  proceeds  to  set  forth  the  fearful 
effects  of  Atheism. 

“ Then,  blood-stain’d  Murder,  bare  thy  hideous  arm, 

And  thou,  Rebellion,  welter  in  thy  storm; 

Awake,  ye  spirits  of  avenging  crime  ; 

Burst  from  your  bonds,  and  battle  with  the  time  ! " 

Mr.  Robert^  Montgomery  is  fond  of  personification,  and 
belongs,  we  need  not  say,  to  that  school  of  poets  who 
hold  that  nothing  more  is  necessary  to  a personification 
in  poetry  than  to  begin  a word  with  a capital  letter.  Mur- 
der may,  without  impropriety,  bare  her  arm,  as  she  did  long 
ago,  in  Mr.  Campbell’s  Pleasures  of  Hope.  But  what  pos- 
sible motive  Rebellion  can  have  for  weltering  in  her  storm, 
what  avenging  crime  may  be,  who  its  spirits  may  be,  why 
they  should  burst  from  their  bonds,  what  their  bonds  may 
be,  why  tliey  should  battle  with  the  time,  what  the  time 
may  be,  and  what  a battle  between  the  time  and  the  spirits 
of  avenging  crime  would  resemble,  we  must  confess  our- 
selves quite  unable  to  understand. 

“ And  here  let  Memory  turn  her  tearful  glance 
On  the  dark  horrors  of  tumultuous  France,  * 

When  blood  and  blasphemy  defiled  her  land, 

And  fierce  Rebellion  shook  her  savage  hand.’' 

Whether  Rebellion  shakes  her  own  hand,  shakes  the  hand 
of  Memory,  or  shakes  the  hand  of  France,  or  what  any  one 
of  these  three  metaphors  would  mean,  we  know  no  more 
than  we  know  what  is  the  sense  of  the  following  passage  : 

**  Let  the  foul  orgies  of  infuriate  crime 
Picture  the  raging  havoc  of  that  time, 

When  leagued  Rebellion  march’d  to  kindle  man. 

Fright  in  her  rear,  and  Murder  in  her  van. 

And  thou,  sweet  flower  of  Austria,  slaughter’d  Queen, 

Who  dropp’d  no  tear  upon  the  dreadful  scene. 

When  gush’d  the  life-blood  from  thine  angel  form, 

And  martyr’d  beauty  perish’d  in  the  storm, 

Once  worshipp’d  paragon  of  all  who  saw, 

Thy  look  obedience,  and  thy  smile  a law.” 

What  is  the  distinction  between  the  foul  orgies  and  tio 
raging  havoc  which  the  foul  orgies  are  to  picture  ? Why 
does  Fright  go  behind  Rebellion, and  Murder  before?  Why 
should  not  Murder  fall  behind  Fright?  Or  why  should  not 
ail  the  three  walk  abreast?  We  have  read  of  a hero  who 
bad 

**  Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  combined. 

And  Sorrow’s  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind#*' 

VoL.  I,— 34 


530 


Macaulay's  miscellaneous  whitings. 


Gray,  we  suspect,  could  have  given  a reason  for  dispos- 
ing the  allegorical  attendants  of  Edward  thus.  But  to 
})roceed,  “Flower  of  Austria”  is  stolen  from  Byron* 
“ Drop})’d  ” is  false  English.  “ Perisli’d  in  the  storm  ” means 
nothing  at  all ; and  “ thy  look  obedience  ” means  the  very 
reverse  of  A\diat  Mr.  Kobert  Montgomery  intends  to  say. 

Our  poet  then  })roceeds  to  demonstrate  the  immortality 
of  the  soul:  • 

“ And  shall  the  soul,  the  fount  of  reason,  die, 

When  dust  and  darkness  round  its  temple  lie  ? 

Did  God  breathe  in  it  no  ethereal  fire, 

Dimless  and  quenchless,  though  the  breath  expire  ? ’* 

The  soul  is  a fountain ; and  therefore  it  is  not  to  die,  though 
dust  and  darkness  lie  round  its  temple,  because  an  ethereal 
fire  has  been  breathed  into  it,  which  cannot  be  quenched 
though  its  breath  expire.  Is  it  the  fountain,  or  the  temple, 
that  breathes,  and  has  fire  breathed  into  it? 

Mr.  Montgomery  apostrophizes  the 

“ Immortal  beacons, — spirits  of  the  just,** — 

and  describes  their  employments  in  another  world,  which 
are  to  be,  it  seems,  bathing  in  light,  hearing  fiery  streams 
fld^v,  and  riding  on  living  cars  of  lightning.  The  deathbed 
of  the  skeptic  is  described  with  what  we  suppose  is  meant 
for  energy.  We  then  have  the  deathbed  of  a Christian 
made  as  ridiculous  as  false  imagery  and  false  English  can 
make  it.  But  this  is  not  enough.  The  day  of  Judgment  is 
to  be  described,  and  a roaring  cataract  of  nonsense  is  poured 
forth  upon  this  tremendous  subject.  Earth,  we  are  tcld,  is 
flashed  into  Eternity.  Furnace  blazes  wheel  round  the  ho- 
rizon, and  burst  into  bright  wizard  phantoms.  Racing  hur- 
ricanes enroll  and  whirl  quivering  fire-clouds.  The  white 
weaves  gallop.  Shadowy  worlds  career  around.  The  red 
and  raging  eye  of  Imagination  is  then  forbidden  to  pry 
further.  But  further  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  persists  in 
prying.  The  stars  bound  through  the  airy  roar.  The 
unbosomed  deep  yawns  on  the  ruin.  The  billows  of  Eter- 
nity then  begin  to  advance.  The  world  glares  in  fiery  slum- 
ber. A cUr  comes  forward  driven  by  living  thunder. 

“ Creation  shudders  with  sublime  dismay. 

And  in  a blazing  tempest  whirls  away.** 

And  this  is  fine  poetry ! This  is  what  ranks  its  writer 
with  the  master-spirits  of  the  age ! This  is  what  has  been 
described,  over  and  over  again,  in  terms  which  would  rev 


MR.  ROBERT  MONTGOMERY. 


581 


quire  some  qualification  if  used  respecting  Paradise  Lost ! 
It  is  too  much  that  this  patchwork,  made  by  stitching  to- 
gether old  odds  and  ends  of  Avhat,  when  new",  was  but  taw- 
dry frippery,  is  to  be  picked  off  the  dunghill  on  which  it 
ought  to  rot,  and  to  be  held  up  to  admiration  as  an  inesti- 
mable specimen  of  art.  And  what  must  wc  think  of  a sys- 
tem by  means  of  which  verses  like  those  which  we  have 
quoted,  verses  fit  only  for  the  poet’s  corner  of  the  Morning 
Post,  can  produce  emolument  and  fame  ? The  circulation 
of  this  writer’s  poetry  has  been  greater  than  that  of  South- 
ey’s Roderick,  and  beyond  all  comparison  greater  than  that 
of  Cary’s  Dante  or  of  the  best  works  of  Coleridge.  Thus 
encouraged  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  has  favored  the  pub- 
lic with  volume  after  volume.  We  have  given  so  much 
space  to  the  examination  of  his  first  and  most  popular  per- 
formance that  we  have  none  to  spare  for  his  Universa* 
Prayer,  and  his  smaller  poems,  which,  as  the  puffing  journals 
tell  us,  would  alone  constitute  a sufficient  title  to  literary 
immortality.  We  shall  pass  at  once  to  his  last  publication, 
entitled  Satan. 

This  poem  was  ushered  into  the  wmrld  with  the  usual 
roar  of  acclamation.  But  the  thing  was  now  past  a joke. 
Pretensions  so  unfounded,  so  impudent,  and  so  successful, 
had  aroused  a spirit  of  resistance.  In  several  magazines 
and  reviews,  accordingly,  Satan  has  been  handled  somewhat 
roughly,  and  the  arts  of  the  puffers  have  been  exposed  with 
good  sense  and  spirit.  We  shall,  therefore,  be  very  concise. 

Of  the  two  poems  we  rather  prefer  that  on  the  Omni- 
presence of  the  Deity,  for  the  same  reason  which  induced 
Sir  Thomas  More  to  rank  one  bad  book  above  another. 

Marry,  this  is  somewhat.  This  is  rhyme.  But  the  other 
is  neither  rhyme  nor  reason.”  Satan  is  a long  soliloquy, 
which  the  Devil  pronounces  in  five  or  six  thousand  lines  of 
bad  blank  verse,  concerning  geography,  politics,  newspa- 
pers,  fashionable  society,  theatrical  amusements.  Sir  Walter 
Scott’s  novels.  Lord  Byron’s  poetry,  and  Mr.  Martin’s  pic- 
tures. The  new  designs  for  Milton  have,  as  was  natural, 
particularly  attracted  the  attention  of  a personage  who  oc- 
cupies so  conspicuous  a place  in  them.  Mr.  Martin  must  be 
pleased  to  learn  that,  whatever  may  be  thought  of  those 
performances  on  earth,  they  give  full  satisfaction  in  Pan- 
dasmonium,  and  that  he  is  there  thought  to  have  hit  off  the 
likenesses  of  the  various  Thrones  and  Dominations  very 
haj)pily. 


1 


632  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  ^vElTlNGS. 

The  motto  to  the  poem  of  Satan  is  taken  from  the  Bool; 
of  Job:  “Whence  comest  thou?  From  going  to  and  fro 

in  the  earth,  and  walking  up  and  down  in  it.”  And  cer- 
tainly Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  has  not  failed  to  make  liis 
hero  go  to  and  fro,  and  walk  up  and  down.  With  the  ex- 
ception,  however,  of  this  propensity  to  locomotion,  Satan 
lias  not  one  Satanic  quality.  Mad  Tom  had  told  us  that 
“ the  prince  of  darkness  is  a gentleman  ; ” but  we  had  yet 
ii  learn  that  he  is  a respectable  and  pious  gentleman,  whose 
principal  fault  is  that  he  is  something  of  a twaddle  and  far 
too  liberal  of  his  good  advice.  That  happy  change  in  his 
character  which  Origen  anticipated,  and  of  which  Tillotson 
did  not  despair,  seems  to  be  rapidly  taking  place.  Bad 
habits  are  not  eradicated  in  a moment.  It  is  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  so  old  an  offender  should  now  and  then  re- 
lapse for  a short  time  into  wrong  dispositions.  But  to  give 
him  his  due,  as  the  proverb  recommends,  we  must  say  that 
he  always  returns,  after  two  or  three  lines  of  impiety,  to  his 
preaching  style.  We  would  seriously  advise  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery to  omit  or  alter  about  a hundred  lines  in  different 
})arts  of  this  large  volume,  and  to  republish  it  under  the 
name  of  “ Gabriel.”  The  reflections  of  which  it  consists 
would  come  less  absurdly,  as  far  as  there  is  a more  and  a 
less  ill  extreme  absurdity,  from  a good  than  from  a bad 
angel. 

We  can  afford  room  only  for  a single  quotation.  We 
give  one  taken  at  random,  neither  worse  nor  better,  as  far 
as  we  can  perceive,  than  any  other  equal  number  of  lines  in 
the  book.  The  Devil  goes  to  the  play,  and  moralizes  there- 
on as  follows : 

“ Music  and  Pomp  their  mingling  spirits  shed 
Around  me  ; beauties  in  their  cloud-like  robes 
Shine  forth, — a scenic  paradise,  it  glares 
Intoxication  through  the  reeling  sense 
Of  flush’d  enjoyment.  In  the  motley  host 
Three  prime  gradations  may  be  rank’d  : the  first, 

To  mount  upon  the  wings  of  Shakspeare’s  mind, 

And  win  a flash  of  his  Promethean  thought, — 

To  smile  and  weep,  to  shudder,  and  achieve 
A round  of  passionate  omnipotence, 

Attend : the  second  are  a sensual  tribe. 

Convened  to  hear  romantic  harlots  sing, 

On  forms  to  banquet  a lascivious  gaze. 

While  tlie  bright  perfidy  of  wanton  eyes 
Through  brain  and  spirit  darts  delicious  fire  : 

The  last,  a throng  most  pitiful ! who  seem, 

With  their  corroded  figures,  rayless  glance, 

And  death-like  struggle  of  decaying  age, 


BADLiik^S  LAW  OB'  1*0I*ULATI0X,  533 

Like  painted  skeletons  in  charnel  pomp 
Set  forth  to  satirize  the  human  kind  1 — 

How  fine  a prospect  for  demoniac  view  I 
* Creatures  whose  souls  outbalance  worlds  awake!  • 

Methinks  I hear  a pitying  angel  cry.’* 

Here  we  conclude.  If  our  remarks  give  pain  to  Mr. 
Ilobert  Montgomery,  we  arc  sorry  for  it.  But,  at  whatever 
cost  of  pain  to  individuals,  literature  must  be  purified  from 
this  taint.  And,  to  show  that  we  are  not  actuated  by  any 
feelings  of  personal  enmity  towards  him,  we  hereby  give 
notice  that,  as  soon  as  any  book  shall,  by  means  of  puffing, 
reach  a second  edition,  our  intention  is  to  do  unto  the 
writer  of  it  as  we  have  done  unto  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery. 


SADLER’S  LAW  OF  POPULATION  ♦ 

{Edinburgh  Review ^ July,  1830.)  j 

We  did  not  expect  a good  book  from  Mr.  Sadler:  and 
it  is  well  that  we  did  not ; for  he  has  given  us  a very  bad 
one.  The  matter  of  his  treatise  is  extraordinary;  the  man- 
ner more  extraordinary  still.  His  arrangement  is  confused, 
his  repetitions  endless,  his  style  everything  which  it  ought 
not  to  be.  Instead  of  saying  what  he  has  t j say  with  the 
perspicuity,  the  precision,  and  the  simpl’  iiy  in  which  con- 
sists the  eloquence  proper  to  scient  fic  writing,  he  indulges 
without  measure  in  vague,  bombastic  declamation,  made  up 
of  those  fine  things  which  boys  of  fifteen  admire,  and  which 
everybody,  who  is  not  destined  o be  a 1 oy  all  his  life,  weeds 
vigorously  out  of  his  composiiions  afier  five-and-twenty. 
That  portion  of  his  two  thick  volumes  vhich  is  not  made  up 
of  statistical  tables,  consists  principally  of  jaculations, 
apostrophes,  metaphors,  similes, — all  the  worst  of  their  re- 
spective kinds.  His  thoughts  are  Lressed  up  in  this  shabby 
finery  with  so  much  profusion  and  \o  little  discrimination, 
that  they  remind  us  of  a company  *f  wretched  strolling 
players,  who  have  huddled  on  suits  of  ragged  and  faded 
tinsel,  taken  from  a common  wardrobe,  and  fitting  neither 
their  persons  nor  their  parts : and  who  then  exhibit  them- 

♦ The  Law  of  Population:  a Treatise  in  Six  Books,  in  Disproof  of  the  Super- 
: ^cundity  of  Human  Bemgs,  and  developing  the  real  Principle  of  their  Increasti 
By  Miohakl  Thomas  Sadl.i:r,  M.  P.  2 voIb.  8vo.  Loudon  ; 1830. 


{^34  Macaulay’s  mtscellankous  writings, 

selves  to  the  laughing  and  pitying  spectators,  in  a state  of 
strutting,  ranting,  painted,  gilded  beggary.  “ 01),  rare 
Daniels ! ” ‘‘  Political  economist,  go  and  do  thou  likewise !” 

“Population,  if  not  j)roscribed  and  worried  down  by  the 
Cerberean  dogs  of  this  wretched  and  cruel  system,  really 
does  press  against  the  level  of  the  means  of  subsistence,  and 
still  elevating  that  level,  it  continues  thus  to  urge  society 
thiough  advancing  stages,  till  at  length  the  strong  and  re- 
sistless hand  of  necessity  presses  the  secret  spring  of  human 
prosperity,  and  the  portals  of  Providence  fly  open,  and  dis- 
close to  the  enraptured  gaze  the  promised  land  of  contented 
and  rewarded  labor.”  These  are  specimens,  taken  at  ran- 
dom, of  Mr.  Sadler’s  eloquence.  We  could  easily  multiply 
them  ; but  our  readers,  we  fear,  are  already  inclined  to  cry 
for  mercy. 

Much  blank  verse  and  much  rhyme  is  also  senttered 
through  these  volumes,  sometimes  rightly  quoted,  sometimes 
wrongly, — sometimes  good,  sometimes  insufferable, — some- 
times taken  from  Shakspeare,  and  sometimes,  for  aught  we 
know,  Mr.  Sadler’s  own.  “Let  man,”  cries  the  philosopher, 
“ take  heed  how  he  rashly  violates  his  trust ; ” and  there- 
upon he  breaks  forth  into  singing  as  follows : 

“ What  myriads  wait  in  destiny’s  dark  womb, 

Doubtful  of  life  or  an  eternal  tomb  ! 

’Tis  his  to  blot  them  from  the  book  of  fate, 

Or,  like  a second  Deity,  create  ; 

To  dry  the  stream  of  being  in  its  source, 

Or  bid  it,  widening,  win  its  restless  course; 

While,  eartli  and  heaven  replenishing,  the  flood 
Rolls  to  its  Ocean  fount,  and  rests  in  God.” 

If  these  lines  are  not  Mr.  Sadler’s  we  heartily  beg  his 
pardon  for  our  suspicion — a suspicion  which,  we  acknowl- 
edge, ought  not  to  be  liglitly  entertained  of  any  human 
being.  We  can  only  say  that  we  never  met  with  them  be- 
fore, and  that  we  do  not  much  care  how  long  it  may  be  be- 
fore we  meet  with  them,  or  with  any  others  like  them,  again. 

The  spirit  of  this  work  is  as  bad  as  its  style.  We  never 
met  with  a book  which  so  strongly  indicated  that  the  writer 
was  in  a good  humor  wdth  himself,  and  in  a bad  humor 
with  everybody  else  ; which  contained  so  much  of  that  kind 
of  reproach  which  is  vulgarly  said  to  be  no  slander,  and  of 
that  kind  of  praise  which  is  vulgarly  said  to  be  no  com- 
mendation. Mr.  Malthus  is  attacked  in  language  w^hich 
it  w^ould  be  scarcely  dec.ent  to  employ  respecting  Titus 
Oates.  “ Atrocious,”  “ execrable,”  “ blasphemous,”  and 


sadlkb’s  law  of  population. 


535 


other  epithets  of  the  same  kind,  are  poured  forth  against 
that  able,  excellent,  and  honorable  man,  with  a profusion 
which  in  the  early  part  of  the  work  excites  indignation,  but, 
after  the  first  hundred  pages,  produces  mere  weariness  and 
nausea.  In  the  preface,  Mr.  Sadler  excuses  himself  on  the 
plea  of  haste.  Two-thirds  of  his  book,  he  tells  us,  were 
written  in  a few  months.  If  any  terms  have  escaped  liim 
which  can  be  construed  into  personal  disrespect,  he  shall 
i deeply  regret  that  he  had  not  more  time  to  revise  them. 

’ We  must  inform  him  that  the  tone  of  his  book  required  a 
I very  different  apology ; and  that  a quarter  of  a year,  though 
it  is  a short  time  for  a man  to  be  engaged  in  writing  a book, 
is  a very  long  time  for  a man  to  be  in  a passion. 

The  imputation  of  being  in  a passion  Mr.  Sadler  will 
not  disclaim.  His  is  a theme,  he  tells  us,  on  which  ‘‘  it  were 
impious  to  be  calm  ; ” and  he  boasts  that,  instead  of  con- 
forming to  the  candor  of  the  present  age,  he  has  imitated 
the  honesty  of  preceding  ones,  in  expressing  himself  with 
the  utmost  plainness  and  freedom  throughout.”  If  Mr. 
Sadler  really  wishes  that  the  controversy  about  his  new 
principle  of  population  should  be  carried  on  with  all  the 
license  of  the  seventeenth  century,  we  can  have  no  personal 
objections.  We  are  quite  as  little  afraid  of  a content  in 
which  quarter  shall  be  neither  given  nor  taken  as  he  can  be. 
But  we  would  advise  him  seriously  to  consider,  before  he 
publishes  the  promised  continuation  of  his  work,  whether 
he  be  not  one  of  that  class  of  writers  who  stand  peculiarly 
in  need  of  the  candor  which  he  insults,  and  who  would 
have  most  to  fear  from  that  unsparing  severity  which  he 
practises  and  recommends. 

There  is  only  one  excuse  for  the  extreme  acrimony  with 
which  this  book  is  written ; and  that  excuse  is  but  a bad 
one.  Mr.  Sadler  imagines  that  the  theory  of  Mr.  Malthus 
is  inconsistent  with  Christianity,  and  even  with  the  purer 
forms  of  Deism.  Now,  even  had  this  been  the  case,  a 
gn^ater  degree  of  mildness  and  self-command  than  Mr. 
Sadler  has  shown  would  have  been  becoming  in  a writer 
who  had  undertaken  to  defend  the  religion  of  charity.  But, 
in  fact,  the  imputation  which  has  been  thrown  on  Mr. 
Malthus  and  his  follo^vers  is  so  absurd  as  scarcely  to  deserve 
an  answer.  As  it  appears,  however,  in  almost  every  page 
of  Mr.  Sadler’s  book,  we  will  say  a few  words  respecting  it. 

Mr.  Sadler  describes  Mr.  Malthus’s  principle  in  the  fot 
lowing  words 


5S6  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

“It  pronounces  that  there  exists  an  evil  in  the  principle  of  population  ; 
an  evil,  not  accidental,  but  inherent  ; not  of  occasional  occurrence,  but  in 
perpetual  operation  ; not  light,  transient,  or  mitigated,  but  productive  oI 
miseries,  compared  with  wluch  all  those  inflicted  by  human  institutions, 
that  is  to  say,  by  the  weakness  and  wickedness  of  man,  however  instigated, ' 
are  ‘ light:  ’ an  evil,  finally,  for  which  there  is  no  remedy  save  one, which  had 
been  long  overlooked,  and  which  is  now  enunicated  in  terms  which  evince 
anything  rather  than  confidence.  It  is  a principle,  moreover,  pre-eminently 
boid,  as  well  as  ‘ clear.’  With  a presumption,  to  call  it  by  no  fitter  name, 
of  which  it  may  be  doubted  whether  literature,  heathen  or  Christian,  fur- 
nigbes  a parallel,  it  professes  to  trace  thi  supposed  evil  to  its  source,  ‘the 
laws  of  nature,  which  are  those  of  God  ’ thereby  implying,  and  indeed  as- 
serting, that  the  law  by  which  the  Deity  multiplies  his  offspring,  and  that  by 
which  he  makes  provision  for  their  sustentation,  are  different,  and,  indeed, 
irreconcilable.” 

“ This  theory,”  he  adds,  “ in  the  plain  apprehension  of 
the  many,  lowers  the  character  of  the  Deity  in  that  attri- 
bute, which,  as  Rousseau  has  well  observed,  is  the  most 
essential  to  him,  his  goodness ; or  otherwise,  impugns  his 
wisdom.” 

Now  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  there  is  physical 
and  moral  evil  in  the  world.  Whoever,  th  rofore,  believes, 
as  we  do  most  firmly  believe,  in  the  goodn  ss  of  God,  must 
believe  that  there  is  no  * icompatibility  etween  the  good- 
ness of  God  and  he  existence  of  physical  and  moral  evil. 
If,  then,  the  goodness  f ijfod  ' e not  incompaf'ble  with  the 
existence  of  physical  and  moral  evil,  n hat  orrounds  does 
Mr.  Sadler  maintain  that  the  *^oodness  of  God  incompat- 
ible with  "he  aw  of  population  laid  d wn  y ' Ir.  Mai  thus  ? 

Is  there  my  difference  etween  he  articular  form  of 
evil  w^hich  ^ould  de  produced  by  over-population,  and  other 
forms  of  evil  which  we  know  to  exist  * ' the  world  ? It  is, 
says  Mr.  Sadler,  i ot  a light  • ransient  evil,  but  a great 
and  permanent  evil.  What  then  ? '^he  question  of  the 
origin  of  evil  is  a question  of  ly  r no, — not  a question  of 
more  or  less.  If  any  explanation  can  be  found  by  which 
the  slightest  inconvenience  ver  sustained  by  any  sentient 
being  can  be  reconciled  with  the  divine  attribute  of  benevo- 
lence, that  explanation  will  equally  apply  to  the  most  dread- 
ful and  extensive  calamities  hat  can  ever  afflict  the  human 
race.  The  difficulty  arises  from  an  apparent  contradiction 
in  terms ; and  that  difficulty  is  as  complete  in  the  case  of 
a headache  which  lasts  for  an  hour  as  in  the  case  of  a 
pestilence  which  unpeoples  an  empire, — in  the  case  of  the 
gust  which  makes  us  shiver  for  a moment  as  in  the  case  of 
the  hurricane  in  which  an  Armada  is  cast  away. 

It  is,  according  to  Mr.  Sadler^  an  instance  of  presump 


SADLER  S LAW  OP  POPULATION. 


537 


tion  unparalleled  in  literature,  heathen  or  Christian,  to  trace 
an  evil  to  “ the  laws  of  nature,  which  are  those  of  God,”  as 
its  source.  Is  not  hydrophobia  an  evil  ? And  is  it  not  a 
law  of  nature  that  hydrophobia  should  be  communicated 
by  the  bite  of  a mad  dog  ? Is  not  malaria  an  evil  ? And 
is  it  not  a law  of  nature  that  in  particular  situations  the 
human  frame  should  be  liable  to  malaria  ? And  is  it  not  a 
law  of  nature  that  in  particular  situations  the  human  frame 
should  be  liable  to  malaria?  We  know  that  there  is  evil  in 
the  world.  If  it  is  not  to  be  traced  to  the  laws  of  nature, 
how  did  it  come  into  the  world  ? Is  it  supernatural  ? And, 
if  we  suppose  it  to  be  supernatural,  is  not  the  difficulty  of 
reconciling  it  with  the  divine  attributes  as  great  as  if  we  sup- 
pose it  to  be  natural  ? Or,  rather,  what  do  the  words  natural 
and  supernatural  mean  when  applied  to  the  operations  of 
the  Supreme  Mind  ? 

Mr.  Sadler  has  attempted,  in  another  part  of  his  work, 
to  meet  these  obvious  arguments,  by  a distinction  without 
a difference. 

“The  scourges  of  human  existence,  as  necessary  regulators  of  the  num- 
bers of  mankind,  it  is  also  agreed  by  some,  are  not  inconsistent  with  the 
wisdom  or  benevolence  of  the  Governor  of  the  universe  ; though  such  think 
that  it  is  a mere  after-concern  to  ‘ reconcile  the  undeniable  state  of  the  fact 
to  the  attributes  we  assign  to  the  Deity.*  ‘ The  purpose  of  the  earthquake,* 
say  tliey,  ‘ the  hurricane,  the  drought,  or  the  famine,  by  which  thousands, 
and  sometimes  almost  millions,  of  the  human  race,  are  at  once  overwhelmed, 
or  left  the  victims  of  lingering  want,  is  certainly  inscrutable.*  How  singular 
is  it  that  a sophism  like  this,  so  false,  as  a mere  illustration,  should  pass  for 
an  argument,  as  it  has  long  done  ! The  principle  of  population  is  declared 
to  be  naturally  productive  of  evils  to  mankind,  and  as  having  that  constant 
and  manifest  tendency  to  increase  their  numbers  beyond  the  means  of 
their  subsistence,  which  has  produced  the  unhappy  and  disgusting  conse- 
quences so  often  enumerated.  This  is,  then,  its  universal  tendency  or  rule. 
But  is  there  in  Nature  tlie  same  constant  tendency  to  these  earthquakes, 
hurricanes,  droughts,  and  famines,  by  which  so  many  myriads,  if  not  mil- 
lions, are  overwhelmed  or  reduced  at  once  to  ruin?  No;  these  awful 
events  are  strange  exceptions  to  the  ordinary  course  of  things  ; their  visita- 
sions  are  partial,  and  they  occur  at  distant  intervals  of  time.  While  Religion 
has  assigned  to  them  a very  solemn  office,  Philosophy  readily  refers  them 
to  those  great  and  benevolent  principles  of  Nature  by  which  the  universe  is 
regulated.  But  were  there  a constantly  operating  tendency  to  these  calam- 
itous occurrences  ; did  we  feel  the  earth  beneath  us  tremulous,  and  giving 
ceaseless  and  certain  tokens  of  the  coming  catastrophe  of  nature  ; were  the 
hurricane  heard  mustering  its  devastating  powers,  and  perpetually  mutter- 
ing around  us  ; were  the  skies  ‘ like  brass,*  without  a cloud  to  produce  one 
genial  drop  to  refresh  the  thirsty  earth,  and  famine,  consequently,  visibly 
on  the  approach  ; I say,  would  such  a state  of  things,  as  resulting  from  the 
constant  laws  of  Nature,  be  ‘ reconcilable  with  the  attributes  we  assign  to 
the  Deity,’  or  with  any  attributes  which  in  these  inventive  days  could  be 
assigned  to  him,  so  as  to  represent  him  as  anything  but  the  tormentor,  rather 
than  the  kind  benefactor,  of  his  creatures  ? Life,  in  such  a condition,  would 
be  like  the  unceasingly  threatened  and  miserable  existence  of  Damocles  at 
the  table  of  Dionysius,  and  the  tyrant  himself  the  worthy  image  of  the  anti- 
populationists.** 


638 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


1 


Surely  tliis  is  wretched  trifling.  Is  it  on  the  number 
of  bad  liarvests,  or  of  volcanic  eruptions,  that  this  great 
question  <L pends  ? Mr.  Sadler’s  }>iety,  it  seems,  would  be 
proof  against  one  rainy  summer,  but  would  be  overcome  by 
three  or  four  in  succession.  On  the  coasts  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, where  earthquakes  are  rare,  he  would  be  an  optim- 
ist. South  America  would  make  him  a skeptic,  and  Java 
a decided  Manichean.  To  say  that  religion  assigns  a solemn 
office  to  these  visitations  is  nothing  to  the  purpose.  Why 
was  man  so  constituted  as  co  need  such  warnings  ? It  is 
equally  unmeaning  to  say  that  philosophy  refers  these  events 
to  benevolent  general  laws  of  nature.  In  so  far  as  the  laws 
of  nature  produce  evil,  they  are  clearly  not  benevolent. 
They  may  produce  much  good.  But  why  is  this  good  mixed 
with  evil?  The  most  subtle  and  powerful  intellects  have 
been  laboring  for  centuries  to  solve  these  difficulties.  The 
true  solution,  we  are  inclined  to  think,  is  that  which  has 
been  rather  suggested,  than  developed,  by  Paley  and  Butler, 
But  there  is  not  one  solution  which  will  not  apply  quite  as 
well  to  the  evils  of  over-population  as  to  any  other  evil. 
Many  excellent  people  think  that  it  is  presumptuous  to 
meddle  with  such  high  questions  at  all,  and  that,  though 
there  doubtless  is  an  explanation,  our  faculties^ are  not  suf- 
ficiently enlarged  to  comprehend  that  explanation.  This 
mode  of  getting  rid  of  the  difficulty,  again,  will  apply  quite 
as  well  to  the  evils  of  over-population  as  to  any  other  evils. 
We  are  sure  that  those  who  humbly  confess  their  inability 
to  expound  the  great  enigma  act  more  rationally  and  more 
decorously  than  Mr.  Sadler,  v/ho  tells  us,  with  the  utmost 
confidence,  which  are  the  meaniS  and  which  the  ends, — which 
the  exceptions  and  which  the  rules,  in  the  government  of 
the  universe  ; — who  consents  to  bear  a little  evil  without 
denying  the  divine  benevolence,  but  distinctly  announces 
that  a certain  quantity  of  dry  weather  or  stormy  weather 
would  force  him  to  regard  the  Deity  as  the  tyrant  of  bis 
creatures. 

The  great  discovery  by  which  Mr.  Sadler  has,  as  he  con- 
ceives, vindicated  the  ways  of  Providence  is  enounced 
with  all  the  pomp  of  capital  letters.  We  must  particularly 
beg  that  our  readers  will  peruse  it  with  attention. 

“ No  one  fact  relative  to  the  human  species  is  more  clearly  ascertained, 
whether  by  general  observation  or  actual  proof,  than  that  their  fecundity 
varies  in  different  communities  nnd  countries.  The  principle  which  effects 
this  variation,  without  the  necessity  of  these  cruel  and  unnatural  expedients 


SADLKr’s  law  of  rorULATION. 


539 


•o  frequently  adverted  to,  constitutes  what  I presume  to  call  Thk  Law  of 
Population  ; and  that  law  may  be  tlius  briefly  enunciated  : — 

“The  Prolificness  of  human  beings,  otherwise  similarly  cir- 
cumstanced, VARIES  inversely  AS  THEIR  NUMBERS. 

“ The  preceding?  definition  may  be  thus  amplified  and  explained.  Pre- 
mising, as  a mere  truism,  that  marriages  under  precisely  similar  circum- 
stances will,  on  tlie  average,  be  equally  fruitful  everywhere,  I proceed  to 
state,  first,  that  the  prolificness  of  a given  number  of  marriages  will,  all 
oilier  circumstances  being  the  same,  vary  in  proportion  to  the  condensation 
of  the  population,  so  that  that  prolificness  shall  be  greatest  where  the  num- 
bers on  an  equal  space  are  Hie  fewest,  and,  on  the  contrary,  the  smallest 
where  those  numbers  are  the  largest.” 

Mr.  Sadler,  at  setting  out,  abuses  Mr.  Maltbus  for 
enouncing  liis  theory  in  terms  taken  from  the  exact  sci- 
ences. “ Applied  to  the  mensuration  of  human  fecundity,” 
he  tells  us,  ‘‘  the  most  fallacious  of  all  things  is  geometrical 
demonstration  ; ” and  he  again  informs  us  that  those  act 
an  irrational  and  irreverent  part  who  affect  to  measure  the 
mighty  depth  of  God’s  mercies  by  their  arithmetic,  and  to 
demonstrate,  by  their  geometrical  ratios,  that  it  is  inade- 
quate to  receive  and  contain  the  efflux  of  that  fountain  of 
life  which  is  in  Him.” 

It  appears,  however,  that  it  is  not  to  the  use  of  mathe- 
matical words,  but  only  to  the  use  of  those  words  in  their 
right  senses  that  Mr.  Sadler  objects.  The  law  of  inverse 
variation,  or  inverse  proportion,  is  as  much  a part  of  mathe- 
matical science  as  the  law  of  geometric  progression.  The 
only  difference  in  this  respect  between  Mr.  Malthus  and  Mr. 
Sadler  is,  that  Mr.  Malthus  knows  what  is  meant  by  geo- 
metric progression,  and  that  Mr.  Sadler  has  not  the  faintest 
notion  of  what  is  meant  by  inverse  variation.  Had  he 
understood  the  proposition  which  he  has  enounced  with  so 
much  pomp,  its  ludicrous  absurdity  must  at  once  have 
flashed  on  his  mind. 

Let  it  be  supposed  that  there  is  a tract  in  the  back  set- 
tlements of  America,  or  in  New  South  Wales,  equal  in  size 
(o  London,  with  only  a single  couple,  a man  and  his  wife, 
living  upon  it.  The  population  of  London,  with  its  imme- 
diate suburbs,  is  now  probably  about  a million  and  a half. 
The  average  fecundity  of  a marriage  in  London  is,  as  Mr. 
Sadler  tells  us,  2*35.  How  many  children  will  tlie  women 
in  the  back  settlements  bear  according  to  Mr.  Sadler’s 
theory  ? The  solution  of  the  problem  is  easy.  As  the  popu- 
lation in  this  tract  in  the  back  settlements  is  to  the  popula- 
tion of  London,  so  will  be  the  number  of  children  born  from 
a marriage  in  London  to  the  number  of  children  born  from 


540 


MACAULAY  S MISCKLLANEOUB  WRITINGS. 


the  marriage  of  this  couple  in  the  back  RcttlementB.  That 
is  to  say — 

2:  1,500,000:  : 2-35  : 1,762,500. 

The  lady  will  have  1,762,500  children  : a large  “ efflux  oi 
the  fountain  of  life,”  to  borrow  Mr.  Sadler’s  sonorous  rhet- 
oric, as  the  most  philoprogenitive  parent  could  possibly 
desire. 

But  let  us,  instead  of  putting  cases  of  our  own,  look  at 
some  of  those  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  brought  forward  in  sup- 
port of  his  theory.  The  following  table,  he  tells  us,  ex- 
hibits a striking  proof  of  the  truth  of  his  main  position.  It 
seems  to  us  to  prove  only  that  Mr.  Sadler  does  not  know 
what  inverse  proportion  means. 


Countries. 

Inhabitants 
on  a square 
mile,  about 

Childrea 
to  a 

Marriage. 

Cape  of  Good  Hope  . • 

1 

5-48 

North  America 

4 

5*22 

Russia  in  Europe  • 

23 

4-94 

Denmark  .... 

73 

4-89 

Prussia 

100 

4-70 

France  

140 

4-22 

England 

160 

3-66 

Is  1 to  160  as  3*66  to  5*48  ? If  Mr.  Sadler’s  principle 
were  just,  the  number  of  children  produced  by  a marriage 
at  the  Cape  'would  be,  not  5*48,  but  very  near  600.  Or 
take  America  and  France.  Is  4 to  140  as  4 22  to  5*22? 
The  number  of  births  to  a marriage  in  North  America  ought, 
according  to  this  proportion,  to  be  about  150. 

Mr.  Sadler  states  the  law  of  population  in  England  thus : 


“ Where  the  inhabitants  are  found  to  be  on  the  square  mile, 

From  50  to  100  (2  counties)  the  births  to  100  marriages  are  420 

— 100  to  150  (9  counties) 396 

— 150  to  200  (16  counties) 390 

— 200  to  250  (4  counties) 388 

— 250  to  300  (5  counties) 378 

— 300  to  350  ( 3 counties) 353 

— 500  to  600  (2  counties) 331 

— 4000  and  upwards  (1  county) 246 

“ Now,  1 think  it  quite  reasonable  to  conclude,  that,  were  there  not 
another  document  in  existence  relative  to  this  subject,  the  facts  thus 
deduced  from  the  census  of  England  are  fully  sufficient  to  demonstrate  the 
position,  that  the  fecundity  of  liumaii  beings  varies  inversely  as  their  num- 
bers- How,  I ask,  can  it  be  evaded  ? 

Wbat,  we  ask,  is  there  to  evade?  Is  246  to  420  as  50 


sadler’i?  law  op  population. 


641 


to  4000?  Is  331  to  396  as  100  to  500?  If  the  law  pro- 
pounded by  Mr.  Sadler  were  correct,  the  births  to  a hundred 
marriages  in  the  least  populous  part  of  England,  would  be 
246  X 4000  -4-  50,  that  is  19,680, — nearly  two  hundred  chil- 
dren to  every  mother.  But  we  will  not  carry  on  these  cal- 
culations. The  absurdity  of  Mr.  Sadler’s  proposition  is  so 
palpable  lhat  it  is  unnecessary  to  select  particular  instances. 
Let  us  see  v/hat  are  the  extremes  of  population  and  fecundity 
in  well-known  countries.  The  space  which  Mr.  Sadler  gener* 
ally  takes  is  a square  mile.  The  population  at  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  is,  according  to  him,  one  to  the  square  mile. 
That  of  London  is  two  hundred  thousand  to  the  square  mile. 
The  number  of  children  at  the  Cape,  Mr.  Sadler  informs  us, 
is  5*48  to  a marriage.  In  London,  he  states  it  at  2*35  to  a 
marriage.  Now  how  can  that  of  which  all  the  variations 
lie  between  2*35  and  5*48  vary,  either  directly  or  inversely, 
as  that  which  admits  of  all  the  variations  between  one  and 
two  hundred  thousand  ? Mr.  Sadler  evidently  does  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word  proportion.  A million  is  a 
larger  quantity  than  ten.  A hundred  is  a larger  quantity 
than  five.  Mr.  Sadler  thinks,  therefore,  that  there  is  no 
impropriety  in  saying  that  a hundred  is  to  five  as  a million 
is  to  ten,  or  in  the  inverse  ratio  of  ten  to  a million.  He  pro- 
poses to  prove  that  the  fecundity  of  marriages  varies  in  in- 
verse proportion  to  the  density  of  the  population.  But  all 
that  he  attempts  to  prove  is  that,  while  the  population 
increases  from  one  to  a hundred  and  sixty  on  the  square 
mile,  the  fecundity  will  diminish  from  5*48  to  3*66;  and  that 
again,  while  the  population  increases  from  one  hundred  and 
sixty  to  two  hundred  thousand  on  the  square  mile,  the 
fecundity  will  diminish  from  3*66  to  2*35. 

The  proposition  which  Mr.  Sadler  enounces,  without  un- 
derstanding the  words  which  he  uses,  would  indeed,  if  it 
could  be  proved,  set  us  at  ease  as  to  the  dangers  of  over- 
population. But  it  is,  as  we  have  shown,  a proposition  so 
grossly  absurd  that  it  is  difiicult  for  any  man  to  keep  his 
countenance  while  he  repeats  it.  The  utmost  that  Mr. 
Sadler  has  ever  attempted  to  prove  is  this,  — that  the 
fecundity  of  the  human  race  diminishes  as  the  population 
becomes  more  condensed,  ^ — but  that  the  diminution  of 
fecundity  bears  a very  small  ratio  to  the  increase  of  popula- 
tion,— so  that,  while  the  population  on  a square  mile  is  mul 
tiplied  two  hundred-thousand-fold,  the  fecundity  decreases 
by  little  more  than  one-halt 


D412  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous’  writings. 

Docs  this  principle  vindicate  tlie  honor  of  God  ? Does 
it  hold  out  any  new  hope  or  comfort  to  man.  Not  at  all. 
We  pledge  ourselves  to  show,  with  the  utmost  strictness  ol 
reasoning,  from  Mr.  Sadler’s  own  principles,  and  from  facta 
of  the  most  notorious  description,  that  every  consequence 
which  follows  from  the  law  of  geometrical  progression,  laid 
down  by  Mr.  Malthus,  will  follow  from  the  law,  miscalled  a 
law  of  inverse  variation,  which  has  been  laid  down  by  Mfc 
Sadler. 

London  is  the  most  thickly  peopled  spot  of  its  size  in 
the  known  world.  Therefore  the  fecundity  of  the  popula- 
tion of  London  must,  according  to  Mr.  Sadler,  be  less  than 
the  fecundity  of  human  beings  living  on  any  other  spot  of 
equal  size.  Mr.  Sadler  tells  us  that,  ‘‘  the  ratios  of  mortality 
are  influenced  by  the  different  degrees  in  which  the  popula- 
tion is  condensated  ; and  that,  other  circumstances  being 
similar,  the  relative  number  of  deaths  in  a thinly-populated, 
or  country  district,  is  less  than  that  which  takes  place  in 
towns,  and  in  towns  of  a moderate  size  less  again  than  that 
which  exists  in  large  and  populous  cities.”  Therefore  the 
mortality  in  London  must,  according  to  him,  be  greater  than 
in  other  places.  But,  though,  according  to  Mr.  Sadler,  the 
fecundity  is  less  in  London  than  elsewhere,  and  though  the 
mortality  is  greater  there  than  elsewhere,  we  find  that 
even  in  London  the  number  of  births  greatly  exceeds  the 
number  of  deaths.  During  the  ten  years  which  ended  with 
1820,  there  were  fifty  thousand  more  baptisms  than  burials 
within  the  bills  of  mortality.  It  follows,  therefore,  that, 
even  within  London  itself,  an  increase  of  the  population  is 
taking  place  by  internal  propagation. 

Now,  if  the  population  of  a place  in  which  the  fecundity 
is  less  and  the  mortality  greater  than  in  other  places  still 
goes  on  increasing  by  propagation,  it  follows  that  in  other 
places  the  population  will  increase,  and  increase  still  faster. 
There  is  clearly  nothing  in  Mr.  Sadler’s  boasted  law  of  fe- 
cundity which  will  keep  the  population  from  multiplying 
till  the  whole  earth  is  as  thick  with  human  beings  as  St. 
Giles’s  parish.  If  Mr.  Sadler  denies  this,  he  must  hold  that, 
in  places  less  fruitful  than  in  London,  marriages  may  bo 
less  fruitful  than  in  London,  which  is  directly  contrary  to 
his  own  principles ; or  that,  in  places  less  thickly  peopled 
than  London,  and  similarly  situated,  people  will  die  faster 
than  in  London,  which  is  again  directly  contrary  to  his  own 
princij)les.  Now,  if  it  follows,  as  it  clearly  does  follow 


badlek’s  law  op  population. 


543 


from  Mr.  Sadler’s  own  doctrines,  that  tlie  human  race  might 
be  stowed  togetlier  by  tliree  or  four  hundred  to  the  acre, 
and  might  still,  as  far  as  the  principle  of  pro])agation  is  con- 
cerned, go  on  increasing,  wliat  advantage,  in  a religious 
or  moral  point  of  view,  has  his  theory  over  that  of  Mr.  Mal- 
th\^s?  The  principle  of  Mr.  Malthus,  says  Mr.  Sadler,  leads 
to  consequences  of  the  most  frightful  description.  Be  it  so. 
But  do  not  all  these  consequences  spring  equally  from  his 
own  principle  ? Revealed  religion  condemns  Mr.  Malthus. 
Bo  it  so.  13ut  Mr.  Sadler  must  share  in  the  reproach  of 
heresy.  The  theory  of  Mr.  Malthus  represents  the  Deity  as 
a Dionysius  hanging  the  sword  over  the  head  of  his  trem- 
bling slaves.  Be  it  so.  But  under  what  rhetorical  figure 
are  we  to  represent  the  Deity  of  Mr.  Sadler  ? 

A man  who  wishes  to  serve  the  cause  of  religion  ought 
to  hesitate  long  before  he  stakes  the  truth  of  religion  on  the 
event  of  a controversy  respecting  facts  in  the  physical  world. 
For  a time  he  may  succeed  in  making  a theory  which  he 
dislikes  unpopular  by  persuading  the  public  that  it  contra- 
dicts the  Scriptures  and  is  inconsistent  with  the  attributes 
of  the  Deity.  But,  if  at  last  an  overwhelming  force  of  evi- 
dence proves  this  maligned  theory  to  be  true,  what  is  the 
effect  of  the  arguments  by  v>diich  the  objector  has  attempted 
to  prove  that  it  is  irreconcilable  with  natural  and  revealed 
religion?  Merely  this,  to  make  men  infidels.  Like  the 
Israelites,  in  their  battle  with  tlie  Philistines,  he  has  pre- 
sumptuously and  without  warrant  brought  down  the  ark  of 
God  into  the  camp  as  a means  of  ensuring  victory : — and 
the  consequence  of  this  profanation  is  that,  when  the  battle 
is  lost,  the  ark  is  taken. 

In  every  age  the  Church  has  been  cautioned  against  this 
fatal  and  impious  rashness  by  its  most  illustrious  members, 
— by  the  lervid  Augustin,  by  the  subtle  Aquinas,  by  the  all- 
accomplished  Pascal.  Tlie  warning  has  been  given  in  vain. 
The  close  alliance  which,  under  the  disguise  of  the  most 
deadly  enmity,  has  always  subsisted  between  fanaticism  and 
atheism  is  still  unbroken.  At  one  time  the  cry  was, — “If 
you  hold  that  the  earth  moves  round  the  sun,  you  deny  the 
truth  of  the  Bibl  3.”  Popes,  conclaves,  and  religious  orders, 
rose  up  against  the  Copernican  heresy.  But,  as  Pascal  said, 
they  could  not  prevent  the  earth  from  moving,  or  them- 
gelves  from  moving  along  with  it.  One  thing,  however,  they 
could  do,  and  they  did.  They  could  teach  numbers  to  con- 
fiider  the  Bible  as  a collection  of  old  women’s  stories  which 


644  Macaulay’s  MiscKLLANEotJS  wuiTiNOS. 

the  progress  of  civ^ilization  and  knowledge  was  refuting  one 
by  one.  They  had  attempted  to  show  tliat  the  Ptolemaic 
system  was  as  much  a part  of  Christianity  as  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  dead.  Was  it  strange,  then,  that,  when  the 
Ptolemaic  system  became  an  object  of  ridicule  to  every 
man  of  education  in  Catholic  countries,  the  doctrine  of  Jlie 
resurrection  should  be  in  peril  ? In  the  present  generation, 
and  in  our  ow  n country,  the  prevailing  system  of  geology 
has  been,  wdth  equal  folly,  attacked  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
inconsistent  with  the  Mosaic  dates.  And  here  w'e  have  Mr. 
Sadler,  out  of  his  especial  zeal  for  religion,  first  proving  that 
the  doctrine  of  su])erfecundity  is  irreconcilable  wdth  the 
goodness  of  God,  and  then  laying  down  principles,  and  stat- 
ing facts,  from  which  the  doctrine  of  superfecundity  neces- 
sarily follows.  This  blundering  piety  reminds  us  of  the  ad- 
ventures of  a certain  missionary  who  w^ent  to  convert  the 
inhabitants  of  Madagascar.  The  good  father  had  an  au- 
dience of  the  king,  and  began  to  instruct  his  majesty  in  the 
history  of  the  human  race  as  given  in  the  Scriptures. 
‘‘  Thus,  sir,”  said  he,  “ was  woman  made  out  of  the  rib  of 
man,  and  ever  since  that  time  a woman  has  had  one  rib 
more  than  a man.”  “ Surely,  father,  you  must  be  mistaken 
there,”  said  the  king.  “ Mistaken ! ” said  the  missionary. 
‘‘  It  is  an  indisputable  fact.  My  faith  upon  it ! My  life 
upon  it ! ” The  good  man  had  heard  the  fact  asserted  by 
his  nurse  when  he  was  a child, — had  ahvays  considered  it  a 
strong  confirmation  of  the  Scriptures,  and  fully  believed  it 
wdthout  ever  having  thought  of  verifying  it.  The  king  or- 
dered a man  and  woman,  the  leanest  that  could  be  found,  to 
be  brought  before  him,  and  desired  his  spiritual  instructor 
to  count  their  ribs.  The  father  counted  over  and  over,  up- 
W’ard  and  downw^ard,  and  still  found  the  same  number  in 
both.  He  then  cleared  his  throat,  stammered,  stuttered, 
and  began  to  assure  the  king  that,  though  he  had  committed 
a little  error  in  saying  that  a woman  had  more  ribs  than  a 
man,  he  was  quite  right  in  saying  that  the  first  woman  was 
made  out  of  the  rib  of  the  first  man.  “ How  can  I tell 
that?”  said  the  king.  ‘‘You  come  to  me  with  a strange 
story,  w^hich  you  say  is  revealed  to  you  from  heaven.  I 
have  already  made  you  confess  that  one  half  of  it  is  a lie  : 
and  how  can  you  have  the  face  to  expect  that  I shall  believe 
the  other  half  ? ” 

We  have  shown  that  Mr.  Sadler’s  theory,  if  it  be  true,  is 
as  much  a theory  of  superfecundity  as  that  of  Mr.  Malthus. 


545 


Sadler’s  law  op  population. 


But  it  IS  not  true.  And  from  Mr.  Sadler’s  own  tables  wo 
will  prove,  that  it  is  not  true. 

The  fecundity  of  the  human  race  in  England  Mr.  Sadler 
rates  as  follows  : — 


Where  the  inhabitants  arc  found  to  be  on  the  square  mile — 
From  50  to  100  (2  counties)  the  births  to  100  marriages  are  . 

— 100  to  150  (9  counties) 

— 150  to  200  (16  counties) 

— 2(X)  to  250  (4  counties)  . 

— 250  to  300  (5  counties) . 

— 300  to  350  (3  counties) 

— 500  to  600  (2  counties) 

— 4000  and  upwards  (1  county) 


420 

396 

390 

388 

378 

353 

;J31 

!S46 


Having  given  this  table,  he  begins,  as  usual,  to  boast 
and  triumph.  Were  there  not  another  document  on  the 
subject  in  existence,”  says  he,  ‘‘  the  facts  thus  deduced  from 
the  census  of  England  are  sufficient  to  demonstrate  the  posi- 
tion, that  the  fecundity  of  human  beings  varies  inversely  as 
their  numbers  in  the  right  sense  of  the  words  inverse  varia- 
tion. But  certainly  they  would,  “ if  there  were  no  other 
document  in  existence,”  appear  to  indicate  something  like 
what  Mr.  Sadler  means  by  inverse  variation.  Unhappily 
for  him,  however,  there  are  other  documents  in  existence  ; 
and  he  has  himself  furnished  us  with  them.  We  will  extract 
another  of  his  tables  : — 


TABLE  LXIV. 


Showing  the  Operation  of  the  law  of  Population  in  the  different  Hun- 
dreds of  the  County  of  Lancaster, 


Hundreds. 

Population  on 
each  Square 
Mile. 

Square  Miles. 

Population 
;in  1821, 
exclusive  of 
Towns  of 
separate 
Jurisdiction. 

Marriages 

from 

1811  to  1821. 

Baptisms 

from 

1811  to  1821. 

Baptisms  to 
I 100  Marriages. 

Lonsdale  . . 

96 

441 

42,486 

3,651 

16,129 

442 

Almondness 

267 

228 

60,930 

3,670 

15,228 

415 

Leyland  . . 

354 

126 

44,583 

2,858 

11,182 

391 

West  Derby 

409 

377 

154,040 

24,182 

86,407 

357 

Blackburn  . 

513 

286 

146,608 

10,814 

31,463 

291 

Salford . . . 

869 

373 

322,592 

40,143 

114,941 

286 

Mr.  Sadler  rejoices  much  over  this  table.  The  results,  he 
says,  have  surprised  himself;  and,  indeed,  as  we  shall  show, 
they  might  well  have  done  so. 

The  result  of  his  inquiries  with  respect  to  France  he 
presents  in  the  following  table : — 

VoL.  I.— 35 


546 


macatjlat’b  miscellaneous  whitings. 


1 


The  legitimate  births  are,  in  those  departments  where  there  are  to  each 
inhabitant  — 


From  4 to  5 beets.  (2  departs.)  to  every  1000  marriages  . • • • 6130 

3 to  4 . . (3  do.) 4372 

2 to  3 . . (30do.) 4250 

lto2  . . (44do.) 4231 

•Oetol  . . (5  do.) 4140 

and  -06  . . (1  do.)  . . . 2555 


Tlien  comes  the  shout  of  exultation  as  regularly  as  th«‘ 
Gloria  Patri  at  the  end  of  a Psalm.  ‘‘  Is  there  any  possi 
bility  of  gainsaying  the  conclusions  these  facts  force  upoi 
us ; namely  that  the  fecundity  of  marriage  is  regulated  b} 
the  density  of  the  population,  and  inversely  to  it  ? ” 

Certainly  these  tables,  taken  separately,  look  well  for 
Mr.  Sadler’s  theory.  He  must  be  a bungling  gamester  who 
cannot  win  when  he  is  suffered  to  pack  the  cards  his  own 
way.  We  must  beg  leave  to  shuffle  them  a little  ; and  we 
will  venture  to  promise  our  readers  that  some  curious  re- 
sults will  follow  from  the  operation.  In  nine  counties  of 
England,  says  Mr.  Sadler,  in  which  the  population  is  from 
100  to  150  on  the  square  mile,  the  births  to  100  marriages 
are  39G.  He  afterwards  expresses  some  doubts  as  to  the 
accuracy  of  the  documents  from  which  this  estimate  has 
been  formed,  and  rates  the  number  of  births  as  high  as  414. 
Let  him  take  his  choice.  We  will  allow  him  every  advan- 
tage. 

In  the  table  w'hich  we  have  quoted,  numbered  Ixiv.,  he 
tells  us  that  in  Almondness,  where  the  population  is  267  to 
the  square  mile,  there  are  415  births  to  100  marriages.  The 
population  of  Almondness  is  twice  as  thick  as  the  popula- 
tion of  the  nine  counties  referred  to  in  the  other  table. 
Yet  the  number  of  births  to  a marriage  is  greater  in  Al- 
niondness  than  in  those  counties. 

Once  more,  he  tells  us  that  in  three  counties,  in  which 
the  population  was  from  800  to  350  on  the  square  mile,  the 
births  to  100  marriages  were  353.  He  afterwards  rates 
them  at  375.  Again  we  say,  let  him  take  his  choice.  But 
from  his  table  of  the  population  of  Lancashire  it  appears 
that,  in  the  hundred  of  Leyland,  where  the  population  is 
354  to  the  square  mile,  the  number  of  births  to  100  mar- 
riages is  391.  Here  again  we  have  the  marriages  becoming 
more  fruitful  as  the  population  becomes  denser. 

Let  us  now  shuffle  the  censuses  of  England  and  France 
tog-ether.  In  two  English  counties  which  contain  from  fifty 
to  lOO  inhabitants  on  the  soiiare  mile,  the  births  to  100  mai 


Sadler’s  law  of  population. 


547 


riages  are,  according  to  Mr.  Sadler,  420.  But  in  forty-four 
departments  of  France,  in  which  there  are  from  one  to  two 
liecatares  to  each  inhabitant,  that  is  to  say,  in  which  the 
population  is  from  125  to  250,  or  rather  more,  to  the  square 
mile,  the  number  of  births  to  100  marriages  is  423  and  a 
fraction. 

Again,  in  five  departments  of  France  in  which  there  is 
less  than  one  hecataro  to  each  inhabitant,  that  is  to  say,  in 
which  the  population  is  more  than  250  to  the  square  mile, 
the  number  of  births  to  100  marriages  is  414  and  a fraction. 
But,  in  the  four  counties  of  England  in  which  the  popula- 
tion is  from  200  to  250  on  the  square  mile,  the  number  oi 
births  to  100  marriages  is,  according  to  one  of  Mr.  Sadler’s 
tables,  only  388,  and  by  his  very  highest  estimate  no  more 
than  402. 

Mr.  Sadler  gives  us  a long  table  of  all  the  towns  of  Eng- 
land and  Ireland,  which,  he  tells  us,  irrefragably  demon- 
strates his  principle.  We  assert,  and  will  prove,  that  thes# 
tables  are  alone  sufficient  to  upset  his  whole  theory. 

It  is  very  true  that  in  the  great  towns  the  number  of 
births  to  a marriage  appears  to  be  smaller  than  in  the  less 
populous  towns.  But  we  learn  some  other  facts  from  these 
tables  which  we  should  be  glad  to  know  how  Mr.  Sadler 
will  explain.  We  find  that  the  fecundity  in  towns  of  fewer 
than  3,000  inhabitants  is  actually  much  greater  than  the 
average  fecundity  of  the  kingdom,  and  that  the  fecundity 
in  towns  of  between  3,000  and  4,000  inhabitants  is  at  least 
as  great  as  the  average  fecundity  of  the  kingdom.  The 
average  fecundity  of  a marriage  in  towns  of  fewer  than 
3,000  inhabitants  is  about  four ; in  towns  of  between  3,000 
and  4,000  inhabitants  it  is  3*60.  Now  the  average  fecundity 
of  England,  when  it  contained  only  160  inhabitants  to  a 
square  mile,  and  when,  therefore,  according  to  the  new  law 
of  population,  the  fecundity  must  have  been  greater  than 
it  now  is,  was  only,  according  to  Mr.  Sadler,  3*66  to  a mar- 
riage. To  proceed, — the  fecundity  of  a marriage  in  the 
English  towns  of  between  4,000  and  5,000  inhabitants  if 
stated  at  3*56.  But  when  we  turn  to  Mr.  Sadler’s  table  o\ 
the  counties,  we  find  the  fecundity  of  a marriage  in  War- 
wickshire and  Staffordshire  rated  at  only  3*48,  and  in  Lan 
cashire  and  Surrey  at  only  3*41. 

These  facts  disprove  Mr.  Sadler’s  principle ; and  the 
fact  on  which  he  lays  so  much  stress — that  the  fecundity  is 
less  in  the  great  towws  than  in  the  small  towns — does  not 

-4 


648  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writinos. 

tend  in  any  degree  to  prove  his  principle.  There  Is  not  the 
least  reason  to  believe  that  the  population  is  more  dense,  on 
a given  space^  in  London  or  Manchester  than  in  a town  of 
4,000  inhabitants.  But  it  is  quite  certain  that  the  popular- 
lion  is  more  dense  in  a town  of  4,000  inhabitants  than  in 
Warwickshire  or  Lancashire.  That  the  fecundity  of  Man- 
chester is  less  than  the  fecundity  of  Sandwich  or  Guildford 
is  a circumstance  which  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
Mr.  Sadler’s  theory.  But  that  the  fecundity  of  Sandwich 
is  greater  that  the  average  fecundity  of  Kent, — that  the 
fecundity  of  Guildford  is  greater  than  the  average  fecundity 
of  Surrey, — as  from  his  own  tables  appears  to  be  the  case, 
— these  are  facts  utterly  inconsistent  with  his  theory. 

We  need  not  here  examine  why  it  is  that  the  human  race 
is  less  fruitful  in  great  cities  than  in  small  towns  or  in  the 
open  country.  The  fact  has  long  been  notorious.  We  are 
inclined  to  attribute  it  to  the  same  causes  which  tend  to 
abridge  human  life  in  great  cities, — to  general  sickliness  and 
want  of  tone,  produced  by  close  air  and  sedentary  employ- 
ments. Thus  far,  and  thus  far  only,  we  agree  with  Mr. 
Sadler,  that,  when  population  is  crowded  together  in  such 
masses  that  the  general  health  and  energy  of  the  frame  are 
impaired  by  the  condensation,  and  by  the  habits  attending 
on  the  condensation,  then  the  fecundity  of  the  race  dimin- 
ishes. But  this  is  evidently  a check  of  the  same  class  with 
war,  pestilence,  and  famine.  It  is  a check  for  the  operation 
of  which  Mr.  Malthus  has  allowed. 

That  any  condensation  which  does  not  affect  the  general 
health  will  effect  fecundity,  is  not  only  not  proved — it  is 
disproved — by  Mr.  Sadler’s  own  tables. 

Mr.  Sadler  passes  on  to  Prussia,  and  sums  up  his  infor- 
mation respecting  that  country  as  follows : — 


Inhabitants  on  a 
Square  Mile,  Ger- 
man. 

Number 

of 

Provinces 

Births  to 
100 

Marriages, 

1754. 

Births  to 
100 

Marriages, 

1784. 

Births  to 
100 

Marriages, 

Busching. 

Under  1000 

2 

434 

472 

503 

1000  to  2000 

4 

414 

455 

454 

2000  to  3000 

6 

384 

424 

426 

8000  to  4000 

2 

365 

40^ 

394 

After  the  table  comes  the  boast  as  usual: 


badler’s  law  of  population. 


549 


••Thug  is  the  law  of  population  deduced  from  the  registers  of  Prussia 
also  ; and  were  the  argument  to  pause  here,  it  is  conclusive.  The  results 
obtained  from  the  registers  of  this  and  the  preceding  countries  exhibiting, 
as  they  do  most  clearly,  the  principle  of  human  increase,  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible should  have  been  the  work  of  chance  ; on  the  contrary,  the  regu- 
larity with  which  the  facts  class  themselves  in  conformity  with  that  princi- 
ple, and  the  striking  analogy  which  the  whole  of  them  bear  to  each  other, 
demonstrate  equally  the  design  of  Nature,  and  the  certainty  of  its  accom- 
plishment.” 

We  are  sorry  to  disturb  Mr.  Sadler’s  complaceucy.  But, 
in  our  opinion,  this  table  completely  disproves  his  whole 
principle.  If  we  read  the  columns  perpendicularly,  indeed, 
they  seem  to  be  in  his  favor.  But  how  stands  the  case  if 
we  read  horizontally  ? Does  Mr.  Sadler  believe  that,  during 
the  thirty  years  which'  elapsed  between  1754  and  1784,  the 
population  of  Prussia  had  been  diminishing  ? No  fact  in 
history  is  better  ascertained  than  that,  during  the  long  peace 
which  followed  the  seven  years’  war,  it  increased  with  great 
rapidity.  Indeed,  if  the  fecundity  were  what  Mr.  Sadler  states 
it  to  have  been,  it  must  have  increased  with  great  rapidity. 
Yet,  the  ratio  of  births  to  marriages  is  greater  in  1784  than 
in  1754,  and  that  in  every  province.  It  is,  therefore,  per- 
fectly clear  that  the  fecundity  does  not  diminish  whenever 
the  density  of  the  population  increases. 

We  will  try  another  of  Mr.  Sadler’s  tables: 


TABLE  LXXXI. 

Showing  the  Estimated  Prolificness  of  Marriages  in  England  at  the  close  of 
the  Seventeenth  Century, 


Places. 

Number 

of 

Inhabitants. 

One 

Annual 

Marriage 

to 

Number 
of  Mar- 
riages. 

Children 
to  one 
Marri’ge 

Total 

Number  of 
Births. 

London  .... 
Large  Towns  . . 

630.000 

870.000 

106 

128 

5,000 

6,800 

4- 

4-5 

20,000 

30,000 

Small  Towns  and  j 
Country  Places  j 

4,100,000 

141 

29,200 

4'^ 

5,500,000 

41,000 

4-65 

190,760 

Standing  by  itself,  this  table,  like  most  of  the  others, 
geems  to  support  Mr.  Sadler’s  theory.  But  surely  London, 
at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  was  far  more  thickly 
peopled  than  the  kingdom  of  England  now  is.  Yet  the 


550  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

fecundity  in  London  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century 
was  4;  and  the  average  fecundity  of  the  whole  kingdom 
now  is  not  more,  according  to  Mr.  Sadler,  than  Then, 
again,  tlie  large  towns  in  1700  were  far  more  thickly  peopled 
than  Westmorland  and  the  North  Riding  of  Yorkshire  now 
are.  Yet  the  fecundity  in  those  large  towns  was  then  4-5. 
And  Mr.  Sadler  tells  us  that  it  is  now  only  4*2  in  Westmor- 
land and  the  North  Riding. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  anything  about  the  cen- 
suses of  the  Netherlands,  as  Mr.  Sadler  himself  confesses 
that  there  is  some  difficulty  in  reconciling  tliem  with  his 
theory,  and  helps  out  his  awkward  explanation  by  supposing, 
quite  gratuitously,  as  it  seems  to  us,  that  the  official  docu- 
ments are  inaccurate.  The  argument  which  he  has  drawn 
from  the  United  States  will  detain  us  but  for  a very  short 
time.  He  has  not  told  us, — perhaps  he  had  not  the  means 
of  telling  us, — what  proportion  the  number  of  births  in  the 
different  parts  of  that  country  bears  to  the  number  of  mar- 
riages. He  shows  that  in  the  thinly-peopled  States  the  num- 
ber of  children  bears  a greater  proportion  to  the  number 
of  grown-up  people  than  in  the  old  States ; and  tliis,  he  con- 
ceives, is  a sufficient  proof  that  the  condensation  of  the 
population  is  unfavorable  to  fecundity.  We  deny  the  in- 
ference altogether.  Nothing  can  be  more  obvious  than  the 
explanation  of  the  phenomenon.  The  back  settlements  are 
for  the  most  part  peopled  by  emigration  from  the  old  States ; 
and  emigrants  are  almost  always  breeders.  They  are  al- 
most always  vigorous  people  in  the  prime  of  life.  Mr. 
Sadler  himself,  in  another  part  of  his  book,  in  which  he 
tries  very  unsuccessfully  to  show  that  the  rapid  multiplica- 
tion of  the  people  of  America  is  principally  owing  to  emi- 
gration from  Europe,  states  this  fact  in  the  plainest  manner  : 

“Nothing  is  more  certain,  than  that  emigration  is  almost  universally 
supplied  by  ‘ single  persons  in  the  beginning  of  mature  life  ; " nor.  secondly, 
that  such  persons,  as  Dr.  Franklin  long  ago  asserted,  ‘ marry  and  raise 
families.* 

“ Nor  is  this  all.  It  is  not  more  true,  that  emigrants,  generally  speaking 
consist  of  individuals  in  the  prime  of  life,  than  that  ‘ they  are  the  most  active 
and  vigorous  ’ of  that  age,  as  Dr.  Seybert  escribes  them  to  be.  They  are. 
as  it  respects  the  principle  at  issue,  a select  class,  even  compared  witli  tha; 
of  their  own  age  generally  considered.  Their  very  object  in  leaving  theii 
native  countries  is  to  settle  in  life,  a phrase  that  needs  lio  explanation  ; and 
they  do  so.  No  equal  number  of  human  l^eings,  therefore,  have  ever  given 
BO  large  or  rapid  an  increase  to  a community  as  ‘ settlers  ^ have  invariably 
done.” 

It  is  perfectly  clear  that  children  are  more  numerous  in 
the  back  settlements  of  America  than  in  the  maritime 


SADLER  S LAW  OF  rOPULATION. 


55 


States,  not  because  unoccupied  land  makes  people  prolific^ 
but  because  the  most  prolific  people  go  to  the  unoccupied 
land.  • 

Mr.  Sadler  having,  as  he  conceives,  fully  established  his 
theory  of  population  by  statistical  evidence,  proceeds  to 
prove,  that  it  is  in  unison,  or  rather  required  by  tlie  prin- 
ciples of  physiology.”  Tlie  difference  between  himself  and 
his  opponents  he  states  as  follows: — 

“ lu  pursuing’  this  part  of  my  subject,  I must  begin  by  reminding  the 
reader  of  the  diiference  between  those  who  hold  the  superfecundity  of  man- 
kind and  myself,  in  regard  to  those  principles  wliich  will  form  the  basis  of 
the  present  argument.  They  contend,  that  production  precedes  population; 
I,  on  the  contrary,  maintain  ^'nt  population  precedes,  and  is  indeed  the 
cause  of,  production.  They  teach  that  man  breeds  up  to  the  capital,  or  in 
proportion  to  tl>e  abundance  of  the  food,  he  possesses  ; I assert,  that  he  is 
comparatively  sterile  when  he  is  wealthy,  and  that  he  breeds  in  proportion 
to  his  poverty  ; not  meaning,  however,  by  that  poverty,  a state  of  privation 
approaching  to  actual  starvation,  any  more  than,  I suppose,  they  would 
contend,  that  extreme  and  culpable  excess  is  the  grand  patron  of  popula- 
tion. In  a word,  they  hold  that  a state  of  ease  and  affluence  is  the  great 
i)roraoter  of  prolificness  : I maintain  that  a considerable  degree  of  labor, 
and  even  privation,  is  a more  efficient  cause  of  an  increased  degree  of  hu- 
man fecundity.’* 

To  prove  this  point  he  quotes  Aristotle,  Hippocrates, 
Dr.  Short,  Gregory,  Dr.  Perceval,  M.  Villermi,  Lord  Bacon, 
and  Rousseau.  We  will  not  dispute  about  it ; for  it  seems 
quite  clear  to  us  that  if  he  succeeds  in  establishing  it  he 
overturns  his  own  theory.  If  men  breed  in  proportion  to 
their  poverty,  as  he  tells  us  here, — and  at  the  same  time 
breed  in  inverse  proportion  to  their  numbers,  as  he  told  us 
before, — it  necessarily  follows  that  the  poverty  of  men  must 
be  in  inverse  proportion  to  their  numbers.  Inverse  propor- 
tion, indeed,  as  we  have  shown,  is  not  the  phrase  which  ex- 
presses Mr.  Sadler’s  meaning.  To  speak  more  correctly,  it 
follows,  from  his  own  positions,  that,  if  one  j^opulation  be 
thinner  than  another,  it  will  also  be  poorer.  Is  this  the 
fact  ^ Mr.  Sadler  tells  us,  in  one  of  those  tables  which  we 
have  already  quoted,  that  in  the  United  States  the  popula- 
tion is  four  to  a square  mile,  and  the  fecundity  5*22  to  a 
marriage,  and  that  in  Russia  the  population  is  twenty-three 
to  a square  mile,  and  the  fecundity  4*94  to  a marriage.  Is 
the  North  American  laborer  poorer  than  the  Russian  boor? 
If  not,  what  becomes  of  Mr.  Sadler’s  argument? 

The  most  decisive  proof  of  Sadler’s  theory,  accord- 
ing to  him,  is  that  which  he  has  kept  for  the  last.  It  is 
derived  from  the  registers  of  the  English  Peerage.  The 
Peers,  he  says,  and  says  truly,  are  the  class  with  respect  to 
whom  we  possess  the  most  accurate  statistical  information 


652 


MAOAtJLAY  S MlSCJlLLAKEOUS  WRITINGS. 


“Touching  their  nnmher^  this  has  been  accurately  known  and  recorded 
ever  since  tlie  order  has  existed  in  the  country.  For  several  centuries  past, 
the  ad<lition  to  it  of  a single  individual  has  been  a matter  of  public  interesl 
and  notoriety  : this  hereditary  honor  conferring  not  personal  dignity  merely, 
but  important  ])rivileges,  and  being  almost  always  identified  with  great 
wealth  and  influence.  The  records  relating  to  it  are  kept  with  the  most 
scrupulous  attention,  not  only  by  heirs  and  expectants,  but  they  are  at>- 
pealed  to  by  more  distant  connections,  as  conferring  distinction  on  all  w ho 
can  claim  such  afliuity.  Hence  there  are  few  disputes  concerning  succes- 
sions to  this  rank,  but  such  as  go  back  to  very  remote  periods.  In  later 
times,  the  marriages,  births,  and  deaths,  of  the  nobility,  have  not  only  been 
registered  by  and  known  to  those  personally  interested,  but  have  been  pub- 
lished periodically,  and,  consequently,  subject  to  perpetual  correction  and 
revision  ; while  many  of  the  most  powerful  motives  which  can  influence  tlie 
human  mind  conspire  to  preserve  these  records  from  the  slightest  falsifica- 
tion. Compared  with  these,  therefore,  all  other  registers,  or  reports,  whether 
of  sworn  searchers  or  others,  are  incorrectness  itself.” 

Mr.  Sadler  goes  on  to  tell  us  that  the  Peers  are  a marry- 
ing class,  and  that  their  general  longevity  proves  them  to 
be  a healthy  class.  Still  peerages  often  become  extinct ; — 
and  from  this  fact  he  infers  that  they  are  a sterile  class.  So 
far,  says  he,  from  increasing  in  geometrical  progression,  they 
do  not  even  keep  up  their  numbers.  “Nature  interdicts 
their  increase.” 

“ Thus,” says  he,  “in  all  ages  of  the  world,  and  in  every  nation  of  it, 
have  the  highest  ranks  of  the  community  been  the  most  sterile,  and  the 
lowest  the  most  prolific.  As  it  respects  our  own  country,  from  the  lowest 
grade  of  society,  the  Irish  peasant,  to  the  highest,  the  British  peer,  this  re- 
mains a conspicuous  truth  ; and  the  regulation  of  the  degree  of  fecundity 
conformably  to  this  principle,  through  the  intermediate  gradations  of  society, 
constitutes  one  of  the  features  of  ^ le  system  developed  in  these  pages.” 

We  take  the  issue  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  himself  offered. 
We  agree  with  him,  that  the  registers  of  the  English  Peer- 
age are  of  far  higher  authority  than  any  other  statistical 
documents.  We  are  content  that  by  those  registers  his 
principles  should  be  judged.  And  we  meet  him  by  positively 
denying  his  facts.  We  assert  that  the  English  nobles  are 
not  only  not  a sterile,  but  an  eminently  prolific,  part  of  the 
community.  Mr.  Sadler  concludes  that  they  are  sterile, 
merely  because  peerages  often  become  extinct.  Is  this  the 
proper  way  of  ascertaining  the  point  ? Is  it  thus  that  ho 
avails  himself  of  those  registers  on  the  accuracy  and  fulness 
of  which  he  descants  so  largely  ? Surely  his  right  course 
would  have  been  to  count  the  marriages,  and  the  number  of 
births  in  Peerage.  This  he  has  not  done ; — but  we  have 
done  it.  And  what  is  the  result  ? 

It  appears  from  the  last  edition  of  Debrett’s  Peerage^ 
published  in  1828,  that  there  were  at  that  time  287  peers  of 
the  United  Kingdom,  who  had  been  married  once  or  oftener. 


SADLER’S  LAW  OF  POPULATION. 


553 


Tlie  whole  number  of  marriages  contracted  by  these  287 
peers  was  333.  The  number  of  children  by  these  marriages 
was  1437, — more  than  five  to  a peer, — more  than  4*3  to  a 
marriage, — more,  that  is  to  say,  than  the  average  number  in 
those  countries  of  England  in  which,  according  to  Mr.  Sad- 
ler’s own  statement,  the  fecundity  is  the  greatest. 

Butthisisnot  all.  These  marriages  had  not,  in  1828, 
produced  their  full  effect.  Some  of  them  had  been  very 
lately  contracted.  In  a very  large  proportion  of  them  there 
w^aa  every  probability  of  additional  issue.  To  allow  for 
this  probability,  we  may  safely  add  one  to  the  average 
which  we  have  already  obtained,  and  rate  the  fecundity  of 
a noble  marriage  in  England  at  5*3  ; — higher  than  the  fecun- 
dity which  Mr.  Sadler  assigns  to  the  people  of  the  United 
States.  Even  if  we  do  not  make  this  allowance,  the  average 
fecundity  of  the  marriage  of  peers  is  higher  by  one-fifth 
than  the  average  fecundity  of  marriages  throughout  the 
kingdom.  And  this  is  the  sterile  class  ! This  is  the  class 
Avhich  “ nature  has  interdicted  from  increasing!”  The 
evidence  to  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  himself  appealed  proves 
that  his  principle  is  false, — utterly  false, — wildly  and  ex- 
travagantly false.  It  proves  that  a class,  living  during  half 
of  every  year  in  the  most  crowded  population  in  the  world, 
breeds  faster  than  those  who  live  in  the  country ; — that  the 
class  which  enjoys  the  greatest  degree  of  luxury  and  ease 
breeds  faster  than  the  class  which  undergoes  labor  and 
privation.  To  talk  a little  in  Mr.  Sadler’s  style,  we  must 
own  that  we  are  ourselves  surprised  at  the  results  which  our 
examination  of  the  peerage  has  brought  out.  We  certainly 
should  have  thought  that  the  habits  of  fashionable  life,  and 
long  residence  even  in  the  most  airy  parts  of  so  great  a city 
as  London,  would  have  been  more  unfavorable  to  the  fe- 
cundity of  the  higher  orders  than  they  appear  to  be. 

Peerages,  it  is  true,  often  become  extinct.  But  it  is 
quite  clear,  from  what  we  have  stated,  that  this  is  not  be- 
cause peeresses  are  barren.  There  is  no  difficulty  in  dis- 
covering what  the  causes  really  are.  In  the  first  place,  most 
of  the  titles  of  our  nobles  are  limited  to  heirs  male  ; so  that, 
though  the  average  fecundity  of  a noble  marriage  is  upwards 
of  five,  yet,  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  up  a peerage,  it  can- 
not be  reckoned  at  much  more  than  two  and  a half.  Sec- 
ondly, though  the  peers  are,  as  Mr.  Sadler  says,  a marrying 
class,  the  younger  sons  of  peers  are  decidedly  not  a marry- 
ing class  ; SQ  that  a peer,  though  he  has  at  least  as  great  a 


554 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


chance  of  liaviiig  a son  as  his  neighbors,  has  less  chance 
than  they  of  liaving  a collateral  heir. 

We  have  now  disposed,  we  think,  of  Mr.  Sadler’s  princi- 
ple of  population.  Our  readers  must,  by  this  time,  be  pretty 
well  satisfied  as  to  his  qualifications  for  setting  up  theories 
of  his  own.  We  will,  therefore,  present  them  with  a few 
instances  of  the  skill  and  fairness  which  he  shows  when  he 
undertakes  to  pull  dowm  the  theories  of  other  men.  The 
doctrine  of  Mr.  Malthus,  that  population,  if  not  checked  l)y 
want,  by  vice,  by  excessive  mortality,  or  by  the  prudent 
self-denial  of  individuals,  would  increase  in  a geometric 
progression,  is,  in  Mr.  Sadler’s  opinion,  at  once  false  and 
atrocious. 

‘‘  It  may  at  once  be  denied,”  says  he,  “ that  human  in- 
crease proceeds  geometrically;  and  for  this  simple  but 
decisive  reason,  that  the  existence  of  a geometrical  ratio  of 
increase  in  the  works  of  nature,  is  neither  true  nor  possible. 
ItAvould  fling  into  utter  confusion  all  order,  time,  magnitude, 
and  space.” 

This  is  as  curious  a specimen  of  reasoning  as  any  that  had 
been  offered  to  the  world  since  the  days  when  theories  w^erc 
founded  on  the  principle  that  nature  abhors  a vacuum.  Wc 
proceed  a few  pages  farther,  however ; and  we  then  find 
that  geometric  progression  is  unnatural  only  in  those  cases 
in  Avhich  Mr.  Malthus  conceives  that  it  exists  ; and  that,  in 
all  cases  in  wdiich  Mr.  Malthus  denies  the  existence  of  a 
geometric  ratio,  nature  changes  sides,  and  adopts  that  ratio 
as  the  rule  of  increase. 

Mr.  Malthus  holds  that  subsistence  wdll  increase  only 
in  an  arithmetical  ratio.  ‘‘  As  far  as  nature  has  to  do  with 
the  question,”  says  Mr.  Sadler,  “ men  might,  for  instance, 
plant  twice  the  number  of  peas,  and  breed  from  a double 
number  of  the  same  animals,  wuth  equal  prospect  of  their 
multiplication.”  Now,  if  Mr.  Sadler  thinks  that,  as  far  as 
nature  is  concerned,  four  sheep  will  double  as  fast  as  two, 
and  eight  as  fast  as  four,  how  can  he  deny  that  the  geomet- 
rical ratio  of  increase  does  exist  in  the  works  of  nature: 
Or  has  he  a definition  of  his  own  for  geometrical  progres 
sion,  as  well  as  for  inverse  proportion  ? 

Mr.  Malthus,  and  those  who  agree  with  him,  have  gener- 
ally referred  to  the  United  States,  as  a country  in  which  the 
human  race  increases  in  a geometrical  ratio,  and  have  fixed 
on  twenty-five  years  as  the  term  in  which  the  population  of 
that  country  doubkis  itsdfc  Mr.  Sadler  contends  that  it  is 


SADLER  S LAW  OF  POPtJLATlOK’. 


555 


j)h}  sically  impossible  for  a people  to  double  in  twenty-five 
years  ; nay,  tliat  thirty-five  years  is  far  too  short  a period, — 
that  the  Americans  do  not  double  by  procreation  in  less 
than  forty-seven  years, — and  that  the  rapid  increase  of  their 
numbers  is  produced  by  emigration  from  Europe. 

Emigration  has  certainly  had  some  effect  in  increasing 
the  ])opulation  of  the  United  States.  But  so  great  has  the 
rate  of  that  increase  been  that,  after  making  full  allowance 
lor  the  effect  of  emigration,  there  will  be  a residue,  attrib- 
utable to  procreation  alone,  amply  sufficient  to  double  the 
population  in  twenty-five  years. 

Mr.  Sadler  states  the  result  of  the  four  censuses  as  fol- 
lows : — 

“ There  were,  of  white  inhabitants,  in  the  whole  of  the  United  States  in 
1790,  3,093,111;  in  1800,  4,309,650  ; in  1810,5,862,093;  and  in  1820,  7,861,710. 
I’he  increase,  in  the  first  term,  being  39  per  cent.  ; and  that  in  the  third  and 
last,  33  per  cent.  It  is  superfluous  to  say,  that  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  de- 
duce the  geometric  theory  of  human  increase,  whatever  be  the  period  of 
duplication,  from  such  terms  as  these.** 

Mr.  Sadler  is  a bad  arithmetician.  The  increase  in  the 
last  term  is  not,  as  he  states  it,  33  per  cent.,  but  more  than 
34  per  cent.  Now,  an  increase  of  32  per  cent,  in  ten  years, 
is  more  than  sufficient  to  double  the  population  in  twenty- 
years.  And  there  is,  we  think,  very  strong  reason  to  believe 
that  the  white  population  of  the  United  States  does  increase 
by  32  per  cent,  every  ten  years. 

Our  reason  is  this.  There  is  in  the  United  States  a class 
of  persons  whose  numbers  are  not  increased  by  emigration, 

' — the  negro  slaves.  During  the  interval  which  elapsed  be- 
tween the  census  of  1810  and  the  census  of  1820,  the  change 
in  their  numbers  must  have  been  produced  by  procreation, 
and  by  procreation  alone.  Their  situation,  though  much 
happier  than  that  of  the  wretched  beings  who  cultivate  the 
sugar  plantations  of  Trinidad  and  Demerara,  cannot  be  sup- 
posed to  be  more  favorable  to  health  and  fecundity  than  that 
of  free  laborers.  In  1810,  the  slave  trade  had  been  but 
recently  abolished ; and  there  were  in  consequence  many 
more  male  than  female  slaves, — a circumstance,  of  course, 
very  unfavorable  to  procreation.  Slaves  are  perpetually 
passiLg  into  the  class  of  freemen  ; but  no  freeman  ever  de- 
scends into  servitude  ; so  that  the  census  will  not  exhibit  th^ 
whole  effect  of  the  procreation  which  really  takes  place. 

We  find,  by  the  census  of  1810,  that  the  number  of  slaves 
in  the  Union  was  then  1,191,000.  In  1820,  they  had  in 
creased  to  1.538.000.  That  ^ tA)  say,  in  ten  years,  they  had 


650  iiACATJLAY’s  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

increased  29  per  cent. — within  three  per  cent,  of  that  rate 
of  increase  wliich  would  double  their  number  in  twenty-five 
years.  We  may,  we  think,  fairly  calculate  that,  if  the  fe- 
male  slaves  had  been  as  numerous  as  the  males,  and  if  no 
manumissions  had  taken  place,  the  census  of  the  slave  popm 
lation  would  have  exhibited  an  increase  of  32  per  cent,  in 
ten  years. 

If  we  are  right  in  fixing  on  32  per  cent,  as  the  rate  at 
which  the  white  population  of  America  increases  by  procre* 
ation  in  ten  years,  it  will  follow  that,  during  th^  last  ten 
years  of  the  eighteenth  century,  nearly  one-sixth  of  the  im 
crease  was  the  effect  of  emigration;  from  1800  to  1810, 
about  one-ninth;  and  from  1810  to  1820,  about  one-seven- 
teenth. This  is  what  we  should  have  expected;  for  it  is 
clear  that,  unless  the  number  of  emigrants  be  constantly  in- 
creasing, it  must,  as  compared  with  the  resident  population, 
be  relatively  decreasing.  The  number  of  persons  added  to 
the  population  of  the  United  States  by  emigration,  between 
1810  and  1820,  would  be  nearly  120,000.  From  the  data 
furnished  by  Mr.  Sadler  himself,  we  should  be  inclined  to 
think  that  this  would  be  a fair  estimate. 

“ Dr.  Seybert  says,  that  the  passengers  to  ten  of  the  principal  ports  of 
the  United  States,  in  the  year  1817,  amounted  to  22,235  ; of  whom  11,977 
were  from  Great  Britain  and  Ireland;  4,164  from  Germany  and  Holland; 
1,245  from  France;  58  from  Italy;  2,901  from  the  British  possessions  in 
North  America;  1,569  from  the  West  Indies;  and  from  other  countries,  321. 
These,  however,  we  may  conclude,  with  the  editor  of  Styles’s  Register, were 
far  short  of  the  number  that  arrived.’’ 

We  have  not  the  honor  of  knowing  either  Dr.  Seybert  or 
the  editor  of  Styles’s  Register.  We  cannot,  therefore,  de- 
cide on  their  respective  claims  to  our  confidence  so  peremp- 
torily as  Mr.  Sadler  thinks  fit  to  do.  Nor  can  we  agr  ee  to 
what  Mr.  Sadler  very  gravely  assigns  as  a reason  for  dis- 
believing Dr.  Seybert’s  testimony.  ‘‘  Such  accounts,”  lie 
says,  “ if  not  wilfully  exaggerated,  must  always  fall  short 
of  the  truth.”  It  would  be  a curious  question  of  casuistry 
to  determine  what  a man  ought  to  do  in  a case  in  which  ho 
cannot  tell  the  truth  except  being  guilty  of  wilful  exaggera- 
tion. We  will,  however,  suppose,  with  Mr.  Sadler,  that  Dr. 
Seybert,  finding  himself  compelled  to  choose  between  two 
sins,  preferred  telling  a falsehood  to  exaggerating;  and  that 
he  has  consequently  underrated  the  number  of  emigrants. 
W e will  take  it  at  double  of  the  Doctors  estimate,  and  sup- 
pose that,  in  1817,  45,000  Europeans  crossed  to  the  United 
States.  Now,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  year  1817 


BAt>LER^S  LAW  OF  POPULATION. 


557 


was  a year  of  the  severest  and  most  general  distress  over  all 
Europe, — a year  of  scarcity  everywhere,  and  of  cruel  fam- 
ine in  some  places.  There  can,  therefore,  be  no  doubt  that 
the  emigration  of  1817  was  very  far  above  the  average, 
probably  more  than  three  times  that  of  an  ordinary  year. 
Till  the  year  1815,  the  war  rendered  it  almost  impossible  to 
emigrate  to  the  United  Statesjeither  from  England  or  from 
the  Continent.  If  we  suppose  the  average  emigration  of 
the  remaining  years  to  have  been  16,000,  we  shall  probably 
not  be  much  mistaken.  In  1818  and  1819,  the  number  was 
certainly  much  beyond  that  average;  in  1815  and  1816, 
])robably  much  below  it.  But,  even  if  we  were  to  suppose 
that,  in  every  year  from  the  peace  to  1820,  the  number  of 
emigrants  had  been  as  high  as  we  have  supposed  it  to  be  in 
1817,  the  increase  by  procreation  among  the  white  inhabi- 
tants of  the  United  States  would  still  appear  to  be  about  30 
per  cent,  in  ten  years. 

Mr.  Sadler  acknowledges  that  Cobbett  exaggerates  the 
number  of  emigrants  when  he  states  it  at  150,000  a year. 
Yet  even  this  estimate,  absurdly  great  as  it  is,  would  not  be 
sufficient  to  explain  the  increase  of  the  population  of  the 
United  States  on  Mr.  Sadler’s  principles.  He  is,  he  tells  us, 
“ convinced  that  doubling  in  35  years  is  a far  more  rapid 
duplication  than  ever  has  taken  place  in  that  country  from 
procreation  only.”  An  increase  of  20  per  cent,  in  ten  years, 
by  procreation,  would  therefore  be  the  very  utmost  that  he 
would  allow  to  be  possible.  We  have  already  shown,  by 
reference  to  the  census  of  the  slave  population,  that  this 
doctrine  is  quite  absurd.  And,  if  we  suppose  it  to  be  sound, 
we  shall  be  driven  to  the  conclusion  that  above  eight  hun- 
dred thousand  people  emigrated  from  Europe  to  the  United 
States  in  a space  of  little  more  than  five  years.  The  whole 
increase  of  the  white  population  from  1810  to  1820  was 
within  a few  hundreds  of  2,000,000.  If  we  are  to  attribute 
to  procreation  only  20  per  cent,  on  the  number  returned  by 
the  census  of  1810,  we  shall  have  about  830,000  persons  to 
account  for  in  some  other  way ; — and  to  suppose  that  the 
emigrants  who  went  to  America  between  the  peace  of  1815 
and  the  census  of  1820,  with  the  children  who  were  born  to 
them  there,  would  make  up  that  number,  would  be  the 
height  of  absurdity. 

We  could  say  much  more;  but  we  think  it  quite  unnes 
CGSsary  at  present.  We  have  shown  that  Mr.  Sadler  is 
careless  in  the  collection  of  facts, — that  he  is  incapable  of 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  avritingS. 


b58 

reasoning  on  facts  when  lie  has  collected  them, — that  ho 
does  not  understand  the  sim])lest  terms  of  science, — that  he 
lias  enounced  a ))ro})Osition  of  which  he  does  n.  t know  the 
meaning, — that  the  proposition  which  he  means  tc  enounce, 
nid  which  he  tries  to  prove,  leads  directly  to  all  those  pon- 
seqiiences  which  he  represents  as  impious  and  immoral, — 
and  that,  from  the  very  documents  to  which  he  has  himself 
a])pealed,  it  may  be  demonstrated  that  his  theory  is  false* 
W e may,  perhaps,  resume  the  subject  when  his  next  volume 
ai^pears.  Meanwliile,  we  hope  that  he  will  delay  its  publi- 
cation until  he  has  learned  a little  arithmetic,  and  unlearned 
a great  deal  of  eloquence. 


JOHN  BUNYAN 

{Edinburgh  Revieio^  December^  1830.) 

This  is  an  eminently  beautiful  and  splendid  edition  of  a 
book  which  well  deserves  all  that  the  printer  and  the  en- 
graver can  do  for  it.  The  life  of  Bunyan  is,  of  course,  not 
a performance  which  can  add  much  to  the  literary  reputa- 
tion of  such  a writer  as  Mr.  Southey.  But  it  is  written  in 
excellent  English,  and,  for  the  most  part,  in  an  excellent 
spirit.  Mr.  Southey  propounds,  we  need  not  say,  many 
opinions  from  which  we  altogether  dissent ; and  his  attempts 
to  excuse  the  odious  persecution  to  which  Bunyan  was  sub- 
jected have  sometimes  moved  our  indignation.  But  w^e 
will  avoid  this  topic.  We  are  at  present  much  more  in- 
clined to  join  in  paying  homage  to  the  genius  of  a great 
man  than  to  engage  in  a controversy  concerning  church- 
government  and  toleration. 

We  must  not  pass  ivithout  notice  the  engravings  with 
which  this  volume  is  decorated.  Some  of  Mr.  Heath’s  wood- 
cuts  are  admirably  designed  and  executed.  Mr.  Martin’s 
illustrations  do  not  please  us  quite  so  well.  His  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  of  Death  is  not  that  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 

*The  Pilgrim'* a Progress,  with  a TAfe  of  John  Bunyan.  By  Robert  Southey, 
Esq.  LL.D.  Poet  Laureato,  lUustrateU  with  EngraviDga,  8vo.  Loadon: 
laao 


JOHN  BUN  Y AN. 


569 


Death  which  Bunyan  imagined.  At  all  events,  it  is  not 
that  dark  and  horrible  glen  which  has  from  childhood  been 
in  our  mind’s  eye.  The  valley  is  a cavern  : the  quagmire  is 
a lake : the  straight  path  runs  zigzag : and  Christian  ap- 
pears like  a speck  in  the  darkness  of  the  immense  vault. 
W e miss,  too,  those  hideous  forms  which  make  so  striking  a 
part  of  the  description  of  Bunyan,  and  which  Salvator  Rosa 
would  have  loved  to  draw.  It  is  with  unfeigned  diffidence 
that  we  pronounce  judgment  on  any  question  relating  to 
the  art  of  painting.  But  it  appears  to  us  that  Mr.  Martin 
has  not  of  late  been  fortunate  in  his  choice  of  subjects.  He 
should  never  have  attempted  to  illustrate  the  Paradise 
Lost.  There' can  be  no  two  manners  more  directly  opposed 
to  each  other  than  the  manner  of  his  painting  and  the  man- 
ner of  Milton’s  poetry.  Those  things  which  are  mere  acces- 
sories in  the  descriptions  become  the  principal  objects  in 
the  pictures ; and  those  figures  which  are  most  prominent 
in  the  descriptions  can  be  detected  in  the  pictures  only  by  a 
very  close  scrutiny.  Mr.  Martin  has  succeeded  perfectly  in 
representing  the  pillars  and  candelabra  of  Pandaemonium. 
But  he  has  forgotten  that  Milton’s  PandaBmonium  is  merely 
the  background  to  Satan.  In  the  picture,  the  Archangel  is 
scarcely  visible  amidst  the  endless  colonnades  of  his  infernal 
]:>alace.  Milton’s  Paradise,  again,  is  merely  the  background 
to  his  Adam  and  Eve.  But  in  Mr.  Martin’s  picture  the 
landscape  is  everything.  Adam,  Eve,  and  Raphael  attract 
much  less  notice  than  the  lake  and  the  mountains,  the  gigan- 
tic flowers,  and  the  giraffes  which  feed  upon  them.  Wo 
read  that  James  the  Second  sat  to  Varelst,  the  great  flower- 
painter.  When  the  performance  was  finished,  his  Majesty 
appeared  in  the  midst  of  a bower  of  sun-flowers  and  tulips, 
which  completely  drew  away  all  attention  from  the  central 
figure.  All  who  looked  at  the  portrait  took  it  for  a flower- 
piece.  Mr.  Martin,  we  think,  introduces  his  immeasurable 
spaces,  his  innumerable  multitudes,  his  gorgeous  prodigies 
of  architecture  and  landscape,  almost  as  unseasonably  as 
Varelst  introduced  his  flower-pots  and  nosegays.  If  Mr, 
Martin  were  to  paint  Lear  in  the  storm,  we  suspect  that  the 
blazing  sky,  the  sheets  of  rain,  the  swollen  torrents,  and  the 
tossing  forest,  would  draw  away  all  attention  from  the 
agonies  of  the  insulted  king  and  father.  If  he  were  to  paint 
the  death  of  Lear,  the  old  man,  asking  the  by-standers  to 
undo  his  button,  would  be  thrown  into  the  shade  by  a vast 
blas5e  of  pavilions,  standards,  armor,  and  heralds’  ooatg 


d60 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Mr.  Martin  would  illustrate  the  Orlando  Furioso  well,  tlie  ’ 
Orlando  Innamorato  still  better,  the  Arabian  Nights  best  of 
all.  Fairy  palaces  and  gardens,  porticoes  of  agate,  and  r 
groves  flowering  with  emeralds  and  rubies,  inhabited  b^ 
people  for  whom  nobody  cares,  these  are  his  proper  domain. 
lie  would  succeed  admirably  in  the  enchanted  ground  of 
Alcina,  or  the  mansion  of  Aladdin.  But  he  should  avoid 
Milton  and  Bunyan. 

The  characteristic  peculiarity  of  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress 
is  that  it  is  the  only  work  of  its  kind  which  possesses  a strong 
human  interest.  Other  allegories  only  amuse  the  fancy. 
The  allegory  of  Bunyan  has  been  read  by  many  thousands 
with  tears.  There  are  some  good  allegories  in  Johnson's 
works,  and  some  of  still  higher  merit  by  Addison.  In  these 
performances  there  is,  perhaps,  as  much  wit  and  ingenuity 
as  in  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  But  the  pleasure  which  is 
produced  by  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  the  Vision  of  Theodore, 
the  genealogy  of  Wit,  or  the  contest  between  Rest  and 
Labor,  is  exactly  similar  to  the  pleasure  which  we  derive 
from  one  of  Cowley’s  odes  or  from  a canto  of  Hudibras.  It 
is  a pleasure  which  belongs  wholly  to  the  understanding, 
and  in  which  the  feelings  have  no  part  whatever.  Nay, 
even  Spenser  himself,  though  assuredly  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  that  ever  lived,  could  not  succeed  in  the  attempt  to 
make  allegory  interesting.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  lavished 
the  riches  of  his  mind  on  the  House  of  Pride  and  the  House 
of  Temperance.  One  unpardonable  fault,  the  fault  of  te- 
diousiiess,  pervades  the  whole  of  the  Fairy  Queen.  We 
become  sick  of  cardinal  virtues  and  deadly  sins,  and  long 
for  the  society  of  plain  men  and  women.  Of  the  persons 
who  read  the  first  canto,  not  one  in  ten  reaches  the  end  of 
the  first  book,  and  not  one  in  a hundred  perseveres  to  the 
end  of  the  poem.  Very  few  and  very  weary  are  those  who 
are  in  at  the  death  of  the  Blatant  Beast.  If  the  last  six 
books,  which  are  said  to  have  been  destroyed  in  Ireland, 
had  been  preserved,  we  doubt  whether  any  heart  less  stout 
than  that  of  a commentator  would  have  held  out  to  the  end. 

It  is  not  so  with  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  That  wonder- 
ful book,  while  it  obtains  admiration  from  the  most  fas- 
tidious critics,  is  loved  by  those  who  are  too  simple  to  ad- 
mire it.  Dr.  Johnson,  all  whose  studies  were  desultory, 
and  who  hated,  as  he  said,  to  read  books  through,  made  an 
exception  in  favor  of  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  The  work 
was  one  of  the  two  qv  three  works  which  he  wished  longer* 


JOHN  BUNYAN. 


561 


It  was  by  no  common  merit  that  the  illiterate  sectary  ex- 
tracted praise  like  this  from  the  most  pedantic  of  critics  and 
the  most  bigoted  of  Tories.  In  the  wildest  parts  of  Scotland 
the  Pilgrim’s  Progress  is  the  delight  of  the  peasantry.  In 
every  nursery  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress  is  a greater  favorite 
than  Jack  the  Giant  Killer.  Every  reader  knows  the  straight 
and  narrow  path  as  well  as  he  knows  a road  in  which  he 
has  gone  backward  and  forward  a hundred  times.  This  is 
tlie  highest  miracle  of  genius,  that  things  which  are  not 
should  be  as  though  they  were,  that  the  imaginations  of  one 
mind  should  become  the  personal  recollections  of  another. 
And  this  miracle  the  tinker  has  wrought.  There  is  no  aS’ 
cent,  no  declivity,  no  resting-place,  no  turn-stile,  with  which 
we  are  not  perfectly  acquainted.  The  wicket  gate,  and  the 
desolate  swamp  wdiich  separates  it  from  the  City  of  De- 
struction, the  long  line  of  road,  as  straight  as  a rule  can 
make  it,  the  Interpreter’s  house  and  all  its  fair  shows, 
the  prisoner  in  the  iron  cage,  the  palace,  at  the  doors  of 
which  armed  men  kept  guard,  and  on  the  battlements  of 
which  walked  persons  clothed  all  in  gold,  the  cross  and  the 
sepulchre,  the  steep  hill  and  the  pleasant  arbor,  the  stately 
front  of  the  House  Beautiful  by  the  wayside,  the  chained 
lions  crouching  in  the  porch,  the  low  green  valley  of  Humil- 
iation, rich  with  grass  and  covered  with  flocks,  all  are  as 
well  known  to  us  as  the  sights  of  our  own  street.  Then 
we  come  to  the  narrow  place  where  Apollyon  strode  right 
across  the  whole  breadth  of  the  way,  to  stop  the  journey  of 
Christian,  and  where  afterwards  the  pillar  was  set  up  to  tes- 
tify how  bravely  the  pilgrim  had  fought  the  good  fight.  As 
we  advance,  the  valley  becomes  deeper  and  deeper.  The 
shade  of  the  precipices  on  both  sides  falls  blacker  and 
blacker.  The  clouds  gather  overhead.  Doleful  voices,  the 
clanking  of  chains,  and  the  rushing  of  many  feet  to  and  fro, 
are  heard  through  the  darkness.  The  way,  hardly  discern- 
ible in  gloom,  runs  close  by  the  mouth  of  the  burning  pit, 
which  sends  forth  its  flames,  its  noisome  smoke,  and  its 
hideous  shapes,  to  terrify  the  adventurer.  Thence  he  goes 
on,  amidst  the  snares  and  pitfalls,  with  the  mangled  bodies 
of  those  who  have  perished  lying  in  the  ditch  by  his  side. 
At  the  end  of  the  long  dark  valley  he  passes  the  dens  in 
which  the  old  giants  dwelt,  amidst  the  bones  of  those  whom 
they  had  slain. 

Then  the  road  passes  straight  on  through  a waste  moor^ 
till  at  length  the  towers  of  a distant  city  appear  before  the 
Yon. 


562  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WEITINSS.  ^ 

traveller  ; and  soon  he  is  in  the  midst  of  the  innumerable  ^ 
multitudes  of  Vanity  Fair.  Tliere  are  the  jugglers  and  the 
apes,  the  shops  and  the  puppet-shows.  There  are  Italian  t 
Row,  and  French  Row,  and  Spanish  Row,  and  Britain  Row,  | 
with  their  crowds  of  buyers,  sellers,  and  loungers,  jabbering  ^ 
all  the  lanmiacres  of  the  earth. 

Thence  we  go  on  by  the  little  hill  of  the  silver  min% 
and  through  the  meadow  of  lilies,  along  the  bank  of  that 
pleasant  river  which  is  bordered  on  both  sides  by  fruit-trees  ^ 
On  the  left  branches  off  the  path  leading  to  the  horrible 
castle,  the  court-yard  of  which  is  paved  with  the  skulls  of 
pilgrims  ; and  right  onward  are  the  sheepfolds  and  orchards 
of  the  Delectable  Mountains. 

From  the  Delectable  Mountains,  the  way  lies  through 
the  fogs  and  briers  of  the  Enchanted  Ground,  with  here  and 
there  a bed  of  soft  cushions  spread  under  a green  arbor. 
And  beyond  is  the  land  of  Beulah,  where  the  flowers,  the 
grapes,  and  the  songs  of  birds  never  cease,  and  where  tlie  sun 
shines  night  and  day.  Thence  are  plainly  seen  the  golden 
pavements  and  streets  of  pearl,  on  the  other  side  of  that 
black  and  cold  river  over  which  there  is  no  bridge. 

All  the  stages  of  the  journey,  all  the  forms  which  cross 
or  overtake  the  pilgrims,  giants,  and  hobgoblins,  ill-favored 
ones,  and  shining  ones,  the  tall,  comely,  swarthy  Madame 
BublDle,  with  her  great  purse  by  her  side,  and  her  fingers 
playing  with  the  money,  the  black  man  in  the  bright 
vesture,  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  and  my  Lord  Hategood, 

Mr.  Talkative,  and  Mrs.  Timorous,  all  are  actually  existing 
beings  to  us.  We  follow  the  travellers  through  their  al- 
legorical progress  with  interest  not  inferior  to  that  with 
which  we  follow  Elizabeth  from  Siberia  to  Moscow,  or  Jeanie 
Deans  from  Edinburgh  to  London.  Bunyan  is  almost  the 
only  writer  who  ever  gave  to  the  abstract  the  interest  of  the 
concrete.  In  the  works  of  many  celebrated  authors,  men 
are  mere  personifications.  We  have  not  a jealous  man,  but 
jealousy  ; not  a traitor,  but  perfidy ; not  a patriot,  but  pa* 
triotism.  The  mind  of  Bunyan,  on  the  contrary,  was  so 
imaginative  that  personifications,  when  he  dealt  with  them, 
became  men.  A dialogue  between  two  qualities,  in  hia 
dream,  has  more  dramatic  effect  than  a dialogue  between 
two  human  beings  in  most  plays.  In  this  respect  the 
genius  of  Bunyan  bore  a great  resemblance  to  that  of  a man 
who  had  very  little  else  in  common  with  him,  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley.  The  strong  imagiaatiou  of  Shelley  made  him  an 


JOHN"  BUNYAN. 


idolater  in  his  own  despite.  Out  of  the  most  indeiiiiito 
terms  of  a hard,  cold,  dark,  metaphysical  system,  lie  made  a 
gorgeous  Pantheon,  full  of  beautiful,  majestic,  and  life-like 
forms.  lie  turned  atlieism  itself  into  a mythology,  rich 
with  .visions  as  glorious  as  the  gods  tliat  live  in  tlic  marbk 
of  Phidias,  or  the  virgin  saints  tliat  smile  on  us  from  the 
canvas  of  Murillo.  The  Spirit  of  Beauty,  the  Principle  cf 
Good,  the  Principle  of  Evil,  when  he  treated  of  them,  ceased 
to  be  abstractions.  They  took  sliaj^e  and  color.  They 
were  no  longer  mere  words  ; but  “ intelligible  forms ; ” 
“ fair  humanities  ; ” objects  of  love,  of  adoration,  or  of  fear. 
As  there  can  be  no  stronger  sign  of  a mind  destitute  of  the 
poetical  faculty  than  that  tendency  which  was  so  common 
among  the  writers  of  the  French  school  to  turn  images  into 
abstractions,  Venus,  for  example,  into  Love,  Minerva  into 
Wisdom,  Mars  into  War,  and  Bacchus  into  Festivity,  so 
there  can  be  no  stronger  sign  of  a mind  truly  poetical  than  a 
disposition  to  reverse  this  abstracting  process,  and  to  make 
individuals  out  of  generalities.  Some  of  the  metaphysical 
and  ethical  theories  of  Shelley  were  certainly  most  absurd 
and  pernicious.  But  we  doubt  whether  any  modern  poet  has 
possessed  in  an  equal  degree  some  of  the  highest  qualities  of 
the  great  ancient  masters.  The  words  bard  and  inspiration, 
which  seem  so  cold  and  affected  when  applied  to  other 
modern  writers,  have  a perfect  propriety  when  applied  to 
him.  He  was  not  an  author,  but  a bard.  His  poetry  seems 
not  to  have  been  an  art,  but  an  inspiration.  Plad  he  lived 
to  the  full  age  of  man,  he  might  not  improbably  have  given 
to  the  world  some  great  work  of  the  very  highest  rank  in 
design  and  execution.  But,  alas ! 

6 Ad(J)VL<;  e/3a  poov  e#cAu(re  Siva 
Toi'  Mcicrat?  <fti\ov  dvSpa,  tov  ov  Nvp.(f)at<rcv  dnex^^. 

But  we  must  return  to  Bunyan.  The  Pilgrim’s  Progress 
undoubtedly  is  not  a perfect  allegory.  The  types  are  often 
inconsistent  with  each  other  ; and  sometimes  the  allegorical 
disguise  is  altogether  thrown  off.  The  river,  for  example, 
is  emblematic  of  death  ; and  we  are  told  that  every  human 
being  must  pass  through  the  river.  But  Faithful  does  not 
pass  through  it.  He  is  martyred,  not  in  shadow,  but  in 
reality,  at  Vanity  Fair.  Hopeful  talks  to  Christian  about 
Esau’s  birthright  and  about  his  own  convictions  of  sin  as 
Bunyan  might  have  talked  with  one  of  his  own  congregation. 
The  damsels  at  the  House  Beautiful  catechize  Christiana’s 


664 


MACAtJLAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


boys,  as  any  good  ladies  might  patecliize  any  boys  at  a SniL 
day  School.  But  we  do  not  believe  tliat  any  man,  whnt^ 
ever  might  be  his  genius,  and  whatever  his  good  luck,  could 
long  continue  a figurative  history  without  falling  into  many 
inconsistencies.  We  are  sure  that  inconsistencies,  scarcely 
less  gross  than  the  worst  into  which  Bunyan  has  fallen,  may 
be  found  in  the  shortest  and  most  elaborate  allegories  of  the 
Spectator  and  the  Rambler.  The  Tale  of  a Tub  and  the 
History  of  John  Bull  swarm  with  similar  errors,  if  the  name 
of  error  can  be  properly  applied  to  that  which  is  unavoidable. 
It  is  not  easy  to  make  a simile  go  on  all-fours.  But  we 
believe  that  no  human  ingenuity  could  produce  such  a 
centipede  as  a long  allegory  in  which  the  correspondence 
between  the  outward  sign  and  the  thing  signified  should  be 
exactly  preserved.  Certainly  no  writer,  ancient  or  modern, 
has  yet  achieved  the  adventure.  The  best  thing,  on  the 
whole,  that  an  allegorist  can  do,  is  to  present  to  his  readers 
a succession  of  analogies,  each  of  which  may  separately  be 
striking  and  happy,  without  looking  very  nicely  to  see  whe- 
ther they  harmonize  with  each  other.  This  Bunyan  has 
done ; and,  though  a minute  scrutiny  may  detect  inconsist- 
encies in  every  page  of  his  Tale,  the  general  effect  which 
the  Tale  produces  on  all  persons,  learned  and  unlearned, 
proves  that  he  has  done  well.  The  passages  which  it  is 
most  difficult  to  defend  are  those  in  which  he  altogethei 
drops  the  allegory,  and  puts  into  the  mouth  of  his  pilgrims 
religious  ejaculations  and  disquisitions,  better  suited  to  his 
own  pulpit  at  Bedford  or  Reading  than  to  the  Enchanted 
Ground  or  to  the  Interpreter’s  Garden.  Yet  even  these 
passages,  though  we  will  not  undertake  to  defend  them 
against  the  objections  of  critics,  we  feel  that  we  could  ill 
spare.  We  feel  that  the  story  owes  much  of  its  charm  to 
these  occasional  glimpses  of  solemn  and  affecting  subjects, 
which  will  not  be  hidden,  which  force  themselves  through 
the  veil,  and  appear  before  us  in  their  native  aspect.  The  effect 
is  not  unlike  that  which  is  said  to  have  been  produced  on  the 
ancient  stage,  when  the  eyes  of  the  actor  were  seen  flaming 
through  his  mask,  and  giving  life  and  expression  to  what 
would  else  have  been  an  inanimate  and  uninteresting 
disguise. 

It  is  very  amusing  and  very  instructive  to  compare  the 
Pilgrim’s  Progress  with  the  Grace  Abounding.  The  latter 
work  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  remarkable  pieces  of  auto- 
biography in  the  world.  It  is  a full  and  open  confession  of 


JOHN  BUNTTAN. 


565 


the  fancies  which  passed  through  the  mind  of  an  illiterate 
man,  whose  affections  were  warm,  wliose  nerves  were  irri- 
table, whose  imagination  was  ungovernable,  and  who  was 
under  the  iiiHuence  of  the  strongest  religious  excitement. 
In  whatever  age  Bunyan  had  lived,  the  history  of  his  feel- 
ings would,  in  all  probability,  have  been  very  curious.  Bid 
the  time  in  which  his  lot  was  cast  was  the  time  of  a great 
stirring  of  the  human  mind.  A tremendous  burst  of  public 
feeling,  produced  by  the  tyranny  of  the  hierarchy,  menaced 
the  old  ecclesiastical  institutions  with  destruction.  To  the 
gloomy  regularity  of  one  intolerant  Church  had  succeeded 
the  license  of  innumerable  sects,  drunk  with  the  sweet  and 
heady  must  of  their  new  liberty.  Fanaticism,  engendered 
by  persecution,  and  destined  to  engender  persecution  in  turn, 
spread  rapidly  through  society.  Even  the  strongest  and 
most  commanding  minds  were  not  proof  against  this 
strange  taint.  Any  time  might  have  produced  George  Fox 
and  James  Naylor.  But  to  one  time  alone  belong  the 
frantic  delusions  of  such  a statesman  as  Vane,  and  the  hys- 
terical tears  of  such  a soldier  as  Cromwell. 

The  history  of  Bunyan  is  the  history  of  a most  excitable 
mind  in  an  age  of  excitement.  By  most  of  his  biographers 
he  has  been  treated  with  gross  injustice.  They  have  under- 
stood in  a popular  sense  all  those  strong  terms  of  self-con- 
demnation which  he  employed  in  a theological  sense.  They 
have,  therefore,  represented  him  as  an  abandoned  wretch 
reclaimed  by  means  almost  miraculous,  or,  to  use  their 
favorite  metaphor,  “ as  a brand  plucked  from  the  burning.” 
Mr.  Ivimey  calls  him  the  depraved  Bunyan  and  the  wicked 
tinker  of  Elstow.  Surely  Mr.  Ivimey  ought  to  have  been 
too  familiar  with  the  bitter  accusations  which  the  most  pious 
people  are  in  the  habit  of  bringing  against  themselves,  to 
understand  literally  all  the  strong  expressions  which  are  to 
be  found  in  the  Grace  Abounding.  It  is  quite  clear,  as  Mr. 
Southey  most  justly  remarks,  that  Bunyan  never  was  a vi- 
cious man.  He  married  very  early  ; and  he  solemnly  declares 
that  he  was  strictly  faithful  to  his  wife.  He  does  not  appear 
to  have  been  a drunkard.  He  owns,  indeed,  that,  when  a 
boy,  he  never  spoke  without  an  oath.  But  a single  admoni- 
tion cured  him  of  this  bad  habit  for  life ; and  the  cure  must 
have  been  wrought  early ; for  at  eighteen  he  was  in  the 
army  of  the  Parliament ; and,  if  he  had  carried  the  vice  of  pro- 
faneness  into  that  service,  he  would  doubtless  have  received 
something  more  than  an  admonition  from  Serjeant  Bind* 


566  Macaulay’s  ^nscELLANEOus  wiiiTmos. 

iheir-ldngs-in-chains,  or  Captain  Ilew-Agag-iTi-pieces-before* 
the-Lorcl.  Bell-ringing  and  playing  at  hockey  on  Sundays 
seem  to  have  been  the  worst  vices  of  this  depraved  tinker. 
They  would  have  passed  for  virtues  with  Archbishop  Laud. 
It  is  quite  clear  that,  from  a very  early  age,  Bunyan  was  a 
man  of  a strict  life  and  of  a tender  conscience.  “ He  had 
been,”  says  Mr.  Southey,  “ a blackguard.”  Even  this  we 
think  too  hard  a censure.  Bunyan  was  not,  we  admit,  so 
fine  a gentleman  as  Lord  Digby ; but  he  was  a blackguard 
no  otherwise  than  as  every  laboring  man  that  ever  lived  has 
been  a blackguard.  Indeed  Mr.  Southey  acknowledges  this. 

Such  he  might  have  been  expected  to  be  by  his  birth,  breed- 
ing, and  vocation.  Scarcely  indeed,  by  possibility,  could 
he  have  been  otherwise.”  A man  whose  manners  and 
sentiments  are  decidedly  below  those  of  his  class  deserves 
to  be  called  a blackguard.  But  it  is  surely  unfair  to  apply 
so  strong  a word  of  reproach  to  one  who  is  only  what  the 
great  mass  of  every  community  must  inevitably  be. 

Those  horrible  internal  conflicts  which  Bunyan  has  de- 
scribed with  so  mueh  power  of  language  prove,  not  that  he 
was  a worse  man  than  his  neighbors,  but  that  his  mind  was 
constantly  occupied  by  religious  considerations,  that  his 
fervor  exceeded  his  knowledge,  and  that  his  imagination  ex- 
ercised despotic  power  over  his  body  and  mind.  He  heard 
voices  from  heaven.  He  saw  strange  visions  of  distant  hills, 
pleasant  and  sunny  as  his  own  Delectable  Mountains.' 
From  those  abodes  he  Avas  shut  out,  and  placed  in  a dark 
and  horrible  wilderness,  where  he  wandered  through  ice 
and  snow,  striving  to  make  his  way  into  the  happy  region 
of  light.  At  one  time  he  was  seized  with  an  inclination  to 
work  miracles.  At  another  time  he  thought  himself  actually 
possessed  by  the  devil.  He  could  distinguish  the  bl.asphe- 
mous  whispers.  He  felt  his  infernal  enemy  pulling  at  his 
clothes  behind  him.  He  spurned  with  his  feet  and  struck 
with  his  hands  at  the  destroyer.  Sometimes  he  \vas  tempted 
to  sell  his  part  in  the  salvation  of  mankind.  Sometimes  a 
violent  impulse  urged  him  to  start  up  from  his  food,  to  fall 
on  his  knees,  and  to  break  forth  into  prayer.  At  length  he 
fancied  that  he  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin.  His 
agony  convulsed  his  robust  frame.  He  was,  he  says,  as  if 
his  breastbone  would  sjflit ; and  this  he  took  for  a sign  that 
he  was  destined  to  burst  asunder  like  Judas.  The  agitation 
of  his  nerves  made  all  his  movements  tremulous;  and  this 
trembling,  he  suj^posed,  v/as  a visible  mark  of  Lis  reprobai 


i 

a 

I, 

I 


JOHN  BUNYAN. 


567 


tion,  like  that  wliich  had  been  set  on  Cain.  At  one  time,  in- 
deed, an  encouraging  voice  seemed  to  rush  in  at  tlie  window, 
like  the  noise  of  wind,  but  very  pleasant,  and  commanded, 
as  he  says,  a great  calm  in  his  soul.  At  another  time,  a 
word  of  comfort  “was  spoke  loud  unto  him  ; it  showed  a 
great  word ; it  seemed  to  be  writ  in  great  letters.”  But 
these  intervals  of  ease  were  short.  His  state,  during  two 
years  and  a half,  was  generally  the  most  horrible  that  the 
human  mind  can  imagine.  “ I w'alked,”  says  he,  with  his 
own  peculiar  eloquence,  “to  a neighboring  town  ; and  sat 
down  upon  a settle  in  the  street,  and  fell  into  a very  deep 
pause  about  the  most  fearful  state  my  sin  had  brought  me  to  ; 
and,  after  long  musing,  I lifted  up  my  head  ; but  methought 
I saw  as  if  the  sun  that  shineth  in  the  heavens  did  grudge 
to  give  me  light ; and  as  if  the  very  stones  in  the  street,  and 
tiles  upon  the  houses,  did  band  themselves  against  me.  Me- 
thought that  they  all  combined  together  to  banish  me  out 
of  the  world.  I was  abhorred  of  them,  and  unfit  to  dwell 
among  them,  because  I had  sinned  against  the  Saviour.  Oh, 
how  happy  now  was  every  creature  over  I ! for  they  stood 
fast,  and  kept  their  station.  But  I was  gone  and  lost.” 
Scarcely  any  madhouse  could  produce  an  instance  of  delu- 
sion so  strong,  or  of  misery  so  acute. 

It  'was  through  this  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
overhung  by  darkness,  peopled  with  de^dls,  resounding  with 
blasphemy  and  lamentation,  and  passing  amidst  quagmires, 
snares,  and  pitfalls,  close  to  the  very  mouth  of  hell,  that 
Bunyan  journeyed  to  that  bright  and  fruitful  land  of  Beulah, 
in  w^hich  he  sojourned  during  the  latter  period  of  his  pil- 
grimage. The  only  trace  which  his  cruel  sufferings  and 
temptations  seem  to  have  left  behind  them  was  an  affection- 
ate compassion  for  those  who  'were  still  in  the  state  in  which 
he  had  once  been.  Religion  has  scarcely  ever  worn  a form 
60  calm  and  soothing  as  in  his  allegory.  The  feeling  which 
predominates  through  the  whole  book  is  a feeling  of  tender- 
ness for  weak,  timid,  and  harassed  minds.  The  character 
of  Mr.  Fearing,  of  Mr.  Feeble-Mind,  of  Mr.  Despondency 
and  of  his  daughter  Miss  Muchafraid,  the  account  of  poor 
Littlefaith  who  was  robbed  by  the  three  thieves,  of  his  spend- 
ing money,  the  description  of  Christian’s  terror  in  the  dun- 
geons of  Giant  Despair  and  in  his  passage  through  the 
river,  all  clearly  show  how  strong  a sympathy  Bunyan  felt, 
after  his  own  mind  had  become  clear  and  cheerful,  for  per- 
I gons  afflicted  w ith  religious  melancholy. 


o68 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


1 

Mr.  Southey,  wlio  has  no  love  for  tlie  Calvinists,  arlmi'ts  ' 
tnat,  if  Calvinism  had  never  worn  a blacker  ap]>earance  than  j 
in  Banyan’s  works,  it  would  never  have  become  a term  of  . 
reproach.  In  fact,  those  works  of  Banyan  with  which  we  ^ 
are  acquainted  are  by  no  means  more  Calvinistic  than  the 
articles  and  homilies  of  the  Church  of  England.  The  mod-  ' 
eration  of  hh  opinions  on  the  subject  of  predestination  gave  i 
offence  to  some  zealous  persons.  We  have  seen  an  absurd  ; 
allegory,  the  heroine  of  which  is  named  Ilephzibah,  written  i 
by  some  laving  supralapsarian  preacher  who  was  dissatisfied  | 
with  tb  mild  theology  of  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress.  In  this  | 
foolish  book,  if  we  recollect  rightly,  the  Interpreter  is  called  | 
the  Enlightener,  and  the  House  Beautiful  is  Castle  Strength.  | 
Mr.  Southey  tells  us  that  the  Catholics  had  also  their  Pil-  -’j 
grim’s  Progress,  without  a Giant  Pope,  in  which  the  Inter-  ^ 
preter  is  the  Director,  and  the  House  Beautiful  Grace’s  Hall. 

It  is  surely  a remarkable  proof  of  the  power  of  Banyan’s  ) 
genius,  that  two  religious  parties,  both  of  which  regarded  j 
his  opinions  as  heterodox,  should  have  had  recourse  to  him 
for  assistance.  * -V 

There  are,  we  think,  some  characters  and  scenes  in  the  r 
Pilgrim’s  Progress,  which  can  be  fully  comprehended  and  ; 
enjoyed  only  by  persons  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  * 
times  through  which  Bunyan  lived.  The  character  of  Mr.  J 
Greatheart,  the  guide,  is  an  examine.  His  fighting  is,  of  ; 
course,  allegorical ; but  the  allegory  is  not  strictly  preserved.  : 
He  delivers  a sermon  on  imputed  righteousness  to  his  com- 
panions ; and,  soon  after,  he  gives  battle  to  Giant  Grim,  who  > 
had  taken  upon  him  to  back  the  lions.  He  expounds  the  ; 
fifty-third  chapter  of  Isaiah  to  the  household  and  guests  of  J 
Gains ; and  then  he  sallies  out  to  attack  Slaygood,  who  was  < 
of  the  nature  of  flesh-eaters,  in  his  den.  These  are  incon-  'i 
sistencies  ; but  they  are  inconsistencies  which  add,  we  think, 
to  the  interest  of  the  narrative.  We  have  not  the  least 
doubt  that  Bunyan  had  in  view  some  stout  old  Greatheart 
of  Naseby  and  Worcester,  who  prayed  with  his  men  before 
he  drilled  them,  who  knew  the  spiritual  state  of  every  dra- 
goon in  his  troop,  and  who  with  the  praises  of  God  in  his 
mouth,  and  a two-edged  sword  in  his  hand,  had  turned  to  . 
flight,  on  many  fields  of  battle,  the  swearing,  drunken  ' 
bravoes  of  Rupert  and  Lunsford. 

Every  age  produces  such  men  as  By-ends.  But  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  was  eminently  prolific  of 
euch  men*  Mr.  Southey  thinks  that  the  satire  was  aimed  at  i 


JOHN  BUNTAN. 


>669 

some  particular  individual;  and  this  seems  hy  no  means 
improbable.  At  all  events,  Bunyan  must  liave  known  many 
of  those  hypocrites  who  followed  religion  only  when  religion 
walked  in  silver  slippers,  when  the  sun  shone,  and  when  the 
people  applauded.  Indeed  he  might  have  easily  found  all 
the  kindred  of  By-ends  among  the  public  men  of  his  time. 
He  might  have  found  among  the  peers  my  Lord  Turn-about, 
my  Lord  Time-server,  and  my  Lord  Fair-speech;  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  Mr.  Smooth-man,  Mr.  Anything,  and 
and  Mr.  Facing-both-ways ; nor  would  “ the  parson  of  the 
parish,  Mr.  Two-tongues,”  have  been  wanting.  The  town 
of  Bedford  probably  contained  more  than  one  politician  who, 
after  contriving  to  raise  an  estate  by  seeking  the  Lord  during 
the  reign  of  the  saints,  contrived  to  keep  what  he  had  got  by 
persecuting  the  saints  during  the  reign  of  the  strumpets, 
and  more  than  one  priest  who,  during  repeated  changes  in 
the  discipline  and  doctrines  of  the  church,  had  remained 
constant  to  nothing  but  his  benefice. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  passages  in  the  Pilgrim’s 
Progress  is  that  in  which  the  proceedings  against  Faithful 
are  described.  It  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  Bunyan  in- 
tended to  satirize  the  mode  in  which  state  trials  were  con- 
ducted under  Charles  the  Second.  The  license  given  to  the 
witnesses  for  the  prosecution,  the  shameless  partiality  and 
ferocious  insolence  of  the  judge,  the  precipitancy  and  the 
blind  rancor  of  the  jury,  remind  us  of  those  odious  mum- 
meries which,  from  the  Restoration  to  the  Revolution,  were 
merely  forms  preliminary  to  hanging,  drawing,  and  quarter- 
ing. Lord  Hategood  performs  the  office  of  counsel  for  the 
prisoners  as  well  as  Scroggs  himself  could  have  performed  it. 

“ Judge.  Thou  runagate,  heretic,  and  traitor,  hast  thou  heard  what 
these  honest  gentlemen  have  witnessed  against  thee  ? 

“ Faithful.  May  I speak  a few  words  in  my  own  defence? 

“ Judge.  Sirrah,  sirrah  ! thou  deservest  to  live  no  longer,  but  to  he  slain 
immediately  upon  the  place  ; yet,  that  all  men  may  see  oui  gentleness  to 
thee,  let  us  hear  what  thou,  vile  runagate,  hast  to  say.” 

No  person  who  knows  the  state  trials  can  be  at  a loss  for 
parallel  cases.  Indeed,  write  what  Bunyan  would,  the  base- 
ness and  cruelty  of  the  lawyers  of  those  times  “ sinned  up  to 
it  still,”  and  even  went  beyond  it.  The  imaginary  trial  of 
Faithful,  before  a jury  composed  of  personified  vices,  was 
just  and  merciful,  when  compared  with  the  real  trial  of 
Alice  Lisle  before  that  tribunal  where  all  the  vices  sat  in  the 
person  of  Jefferies. 


570 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


The  style  of  Bunyan  is  deliglitful  to  every  reader,  and  y 
invaluable  as  a study  to  every  ])orson  who  wishes  to  obtain  ^ 
a wide  command  over  the  English  language.  The  vocabu-  | 
iary  is  the  vocabulary  of  the  common  people.  There  is  not 
an  expression,  if  we  except  a few  technical  terms  of  theology,  | 
which  would  puzzle  the  rudest  peasant.  We  have  observed  ^ 
several  pages  which  do  not  contain  a single  word  of  more 
tlian  two  syllables.  Yet  no  writer  has  said  more  exactly  J 
what  he  meant  to  say.  For  magnificence,  for  pathos,  for  \ 
vehement  exhortation,  for  subtle  disquisition,  for  every  pur-  t 
pose  of  the  poet,  the  orator,  and  the  divine,  this  homely 
dialect,  the  dialect  of  plain  working  men,  was  perfectly  ; 
sufficient.  There  is  no  book  in  our  literature  on  which  we 
Avould  so  readily  stake  the  fame  of  the  old  un|)olluted  English 
language,  no  book  wffiich  shows  so  well  how  rich  that  lan- 
guage is  in  its  own  proper  wealth,  and  hoAV  little  it  has  been 
imj3roved  by  all  that  it  has  borrowed. 

Cowper  said,  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  that  he  dared  not 
name  John  Bunyan  in  his  verse,  for  fear  of  moving  a sneer. 

To  our  refined  forefathers,  we  suppose.  Lord  Roscommon’s 
Essay  on  Translated  Verse  and  the  duke  of  Buckingham-  . 
shire’s  Essay  on  Poetry,  appeared  to  be  compositions  infinite- 
ly superior  to  the  allegory  of  the  preaching  tinker.  We  live  ) 
in  better  times ; and  we  are  not  afraid  to  say,  that,  though  1 
there  were  many. clever  men  in  England  during  the  latter 
half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  were  only  two  minds 
which  possessed  the  imaginative  faculty  in  a very  eminent 
degree.  One  of  those  minds  produced  the  Paradise  Lost, 
the  other  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress. 


We  have,  in  violation  of  our  usual  joractice,  transcribed 
Mr.  Sadler’s  title-page  from  top  to  bottom,  motto  and  all. 

*A  Refuiation  of  an  Article  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  {No.  CII.)  entitled^  “ Sad- 
ler^sLawof  Population,  and  Disproof  of  Human  Superfecundity  y*  containing 
also  Additional  Proofs  the  Principle  enunciated  vn  that  Treatise,  founded  on  the 
Censuses  of  different  Countries  recently  published.  By  Michael.  Thomas  Sad- 
ler, M.  P. , 8vo.  London  : 1830. 

“ Before  anything  came  out  against  my  Essay,  I was  told  I must  prepare  mv- 
Belf  for  a storm  coming  against  it,  it  being  resolved  by  some  men  that  it  was 
necessary  that  book  of  mine  should,  as  it  is  phrased,  be  run  down.*’'-JoHH 
Locke. 


SADLER’S  REFUTATION  REFUTED  * 

(Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1831.) 


SADLER’S  REFUTATION  REFUTED. 


571 


The  parallel  implied  between  the  Essay  on  the  Human  Un- 
derstanding and  the  Essay  on  Superfecundity  is  exquisitely 
laughable.  We  can  match  it,  however,  with  mottoes  aa 
ludicrous.  We  remember  to  have  heard  of  a dramatic  piece, 
entitled  “ News  from  Camperdown,”  written  soon  after 
Lord  Duncan’s  victory,  by  a man  once  as  much  in  his  own 
good  graces  as  Mr.  Sadler  is,  and  now  as  much  forgotten 
as  Mr.  Sadler  will  soon  be,  Robert  Heron.  His  piece  was 
brought  upon  the  stage,  and  damned,  “as  it  is  phrased,” 
in  the  second  act ; but  the  author,  thinking  that  it  had  been 
unfairly  and  unjustly  “run  down,”  published  it,  in  order  to 
put  his  critics  to  shame,  with  this  motto  from  Swift ; — “ When 
a true  genius  appears  in  the  world,  you  may  know  him  by 
this  mark — that  the  dunces  are  all  in  confederacy  against 
him.”  We  remember  another  anecdote,  which  may  perhaps 
be  acceptable  to  so  zealous  a churchman  as  Mr.  Sadler.  A 
certain  Antinomian  preacher,  the  oracle  of  a barn,  in  a county 
of  which  we  do  not  think  it  proper  to  mention  the  name, 
finding  that  divinity  was  not  by  itself  a sufficiently  lucrative 
profession,  resolved  to  combine  with  it  that  of  dog-stealing. 
He  was,  by  ill-fortune,  detected  in  several  offences  of  this  de- 
scription, and  wa::  in  consequence  brought  before  two  justices, 
who,  in  virtue  of  the  powers  given  thera  by  an  act  of  parlia- 
ment, sentenced  him  to  a whipping  for  each  theft.  The 
degrading  punishment  inflicted  on  the  pastor  naturally 
thinned  the  flock;  and  the  poor  man  was  in  danger  of 
wanting  bread.  He  accordingly  put  forth  a handbill, 
solemnly  protesting,  and  appealing  to  the  Christian  charity  of 
the  public  ; and  to  his  pathetic  address  he  prefixed  this  most 
appropriate  text : “ Thrice  was  I beaten  with  rods. — jSL 

J^aiiVs  Epistle  to  the  CorinthiansP  He  did  not  perceive 
that,  though  St.  Paul  had  been  scourged,  no  number  of  whip- 
pings, however  severe,  will  of  themselves  entitle  a man  to 
be  considered  as  an  apostle.  Mr.  Sadler  seems  to  us  to  have 
fallen  into  a somewhat  similar  error.  He  should  remember 
that,  though  Locke  may  have  been  laughed  at,  so  has  Sir 
Claudius  Hunter ; and  that  it  takes  something  more  than  the 
laughter  of  all  the  world  to  make  a Locke. 

The  body  of  this  pamphlet  by  no  means  justifies  the 
parallel  so  modestly  insinuated  on  the  title-page.  Yet  we 
must  own  that,  though  Mr.  Sadler  has  not  risen  to  the 
level  of  Locke,  he  has  done  what  was  almost  as  difficult,  if 
not  as  honorable — ho  has  fallen  below  his  own.  He  is  at 
best  a bad  writer.  His  arrangement  is  an  elaborate  con- 


572 


macauiay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


fusion.  Ilis  style  has  l)cen  constructed,  with  p^reat  care,  in  ! 
such  a manner  as  to  produce  the  least  possible  effect  by 
means  of  the  greatest  possible  number  of  words.  Aspiring 
to  the  exalted  character  of  a Christian  philosojdier,  he  can 
never  preserve  through  a single  paragraph  either  the  calm- 
ness of  a philosopher  or  the  meekness  of  a Christian.  His  ill- 
nature  would  make  a very  little  wit  formidable.  But,  ha}> 
pily,  his  efforts  to  wound  resemble  those  of  a juggler’s  snake. 
The  bags  of  poison  are  full,  but  the  fang  is  wanting.  In 
this  foolish  pamphlet,  all  the  unpleasant  peculiarities  of  his 
style  and  temper  are  brought  out  in  the  strongest  manner. 

He  is  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  in  a paroxysm  of  rage, 
and  would  certainly  do  us  some  mischief  if  he  knew  how. 
We  will  give  a single  instance  for  the  present.  Others  will 
present  themselves  as  we  proceed.  We  laughed  at  some 
doggerel  verses  which  he  cited,  and  which  we,  never  having 
seen  them  before,  suspected  to  be  his  own.  We  are  now 
sure  that,  if  the  principle  on  which  Solomon  decided  a famous 
case  of  filiation  wpre  correct,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to 
the  justice  of  our  suspicion.  Mr.  Sadler,  who,  whatever 
elements  of  the  poetical  character  he  may  lack,  possesses  the  i 
poetical  irritability  in  an  abundance  which  might  have 
sufficed  for  Homer  himself,  resolved  to  retaliate  on  the 
person,  who,  as  he  supposed,  had  reviewed  him.  He  has,  : 
accordingly,  ransacked  some  collection  of  college  verses,  in  the  . 
hope  of  finding,  among  the  performances  of  his  supposed 
antagonist,  something  as  bad  as  his  own.  And  we  must  in 
fairness  admit  that  he  has  succeeded  pretty  well.  We  must  | 
admit  that  the  gentleman  in  question  sometimes  put  into  ■ 
his  exercises,  at  seventeen,  almost  as  great  nonsense  as  Mr. 
Sadler  is  in  the  habit  of  puting  into  his  books  at  sixty.  i 

Mr.  Sadler  complains  that  we  have  devoted  whole  pages 
to  mere  abuse  of  him.  We  deny  the  charge.  We  have, 
indeed,  characterized,  in  terms  of  just  reprehension,  that 
spirit  w hich  shows  itself  in  every  part  of  his  prolix  work. 
Those  terms  of  reprehension  we  are  by  no  means  inclined 
to  retract ; and  we  conceive  that  we  might  have  used  much 
stronger  expressions,  without  the  least  offence  either  to 
truth  or  to  decorum.  There  is  a limit  prescribed  to  us  by 
our  sense  of  what  is  due  to  ourselves.  But  we  think  that 
no  indulgence  is  due  to  Mr.  Sadler.  A write  • who  dis- 
tinctly announces  that  he  has  not  conformed  to  the  candor 
of  the  age — who  makes  it  his  boast  that  he  expresses  him- 
self throughout  with  the  greatest  plainness  and  freedom — • 


Sadler’s  refutation  refuted. 


673 


and  whose  constant  practice  proves  t?iat  by  plainness  and 
freedom  he  means  coarseness  and  rancor — has  no  right  to 
expect  that  others  shall  remember  courtesies  which  he  has 
forgotten,  or  shall  respect  one  who  has  ceased  to  respect 
himself. 

Mr.  Sadler  declares  that  he  has  never  vilified  Mr.  Malthas 
personally,  and  has  confined  himself  to  attacking  the  doc- 
trines which  that  gentleman  maintains.  We  should  wish  to 
leave  that  point  to  the  decision  of  all  who  have  read  Mr. 
Sadler’s  book,  or  any  twenty  pages  of  it.  To  quote  particu- 
lar instances  of  a temper  which  penetrates  and  inspires  the 
whole  work,  is  to  weaken  our  charge.  Yet,  that  we  may 
not  be  suspected  of  flinching,  we  will  give  two  specimens, — • 
the  two  first  which  occur  to  our  recollection.  “ Wliose 
minister  is  it  that  speaks  thus  ? ” says  Mr.  Sadler,  after  mis- 
representing in  a most  extraordinary  manner,  though,  we 
are  willing  to  believe,  unintentionally,  one  of  the  positions 
of  Mr.  Malthas.  “ Whose  minister  is  it  that  speaks  thus  ? 
That  of  the  lover  and  avenger  of  little  children?”  Again, 
Mr.  Malthas  recommends,  erroneously  perhaps,  but  assuredly 
from  humane  motives,  that  alms,  when  given,  should  be 
given  very  sparingly.  Mr.  Sadler  quotes  the  recommenda- 
tion, and  adds  the  following  courteous  comment : — “ The 
tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel.  ” We  cannot  think 
that  a writer  who  indulges  in  these  indecent  and  unjust  at- 
tacks on  professional  and  personal  character  has  any  right 
to  complain  of  our  sarcasms  on  his  metaphors  and  rhymes. 

We  will  now  proceed  to  examine  the  reply  which  Mr. 
Sadler  has  thought  fit  to  make  to  our  arguments.  He  begins 
by  attacking  our  remarks  on  the  origin  of  evil.  They  are, 
says  he,  too  profound  for  common  apprehension ; and  he 
liopes  that  they  are  too  profound  for  our  own.  That  they 
seem  profound  to  him  we  can  well  believe.  Profundity,  in 
its  secondary  as  in  its  primary  sense,  is  a relative  term. 
When  Grildrig  was  nearly  drowned  in  the  Brobdignagian 
cream-jug  he  doubtless  thought  it  very  deep.  But  to  com- 
mon apprehension  our  reasoning  would,  we  are  persuaded, 
a})pear  perfectly  simple. 

The  theory  of  Mr.  Malthas,  says  Mr.  Sadler,  cannot  be 
true,  because  it  asserts  the  existence  of  a great  and  terrible 
evil,  and  is  therefore  inconsistent  with  the  goodnesg  of  God. 
We  answer  thus.  We  know  that  there  are  in  the  world 
great  and  terrible  evils.  In  spite  of  these  evils,  Av^e  believe 
in  the  goodness  of  God.  Why  may  we  not  then  continue 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


{)74 


to  believe  in  liis  goodness,  tliougli  another  evil  should  be  ** 
added  to  the  list. 

How  does  Mr.  Sadler  answer  this  ? Merely  by  telling 
us  that  we  are  too  wicked  to  be  reasoned  with,  lie  com-  • 


pletely  shrinks  from  the  question  ; a question,  be  it  remem- 
bered, not  raised  by  us — a question  which  wc  should  have 
felt  strong  objections  to  raising  unnecessarily — a question 
put  forward  by  himself,  as  intimately  connected  with  the 
subject  of  his  two  ponderous  volumes.  lie  attempts  to  carp 
at  detached  jiarts  of  our  reasoning  on  the  subject.  With 
what  success  he  carries  on  this  guerilla  Avar  after  declining 
a general  action  with  the  main  body  of  our  argument  our 
readers  shall  see. 


“ The  reviewer  sends  me  to  Paley,  who  is,  I confess,  rather  more  intel- 
ligible on  the  subject,  and  wlio,  fortunately,  has  decided  the  very  point  in 
dispute.  I will  first  give  the  words  of  tlie  reviewer,  who,  wlien  speaking  of 
my  general  argument  regarding  the  magnitude  of  the  evils,  moral  and  phys- 
ical, implied  in  the  tlieory  I ppose,  sums  up  his  ideas  thus  : — ‘ Mr.  Sadler 
says,  that  it  is  not  a li  ht  or  transient  evil  but  a great  and  permanent  evil. 
What  then  ? The  qr  ^ition  of  the  origin  of  evil  is  a question  of  ay  or  no, — 
not  a question  o/moi  : less.’  But  what  says  Paley  ? His  express  rule  is 

this,  that  ‘ when  we  cannot  resolve  all  appearances  into  benevolence  of  design, 
we  make  the  few  f/ive  place  to  the  many,  the  little  to  the  great  ,*  that 
we  take  our  judgment  from  a large  and  decided  preponder  ancy.*  Now  in 
weighing  these  two  authorities,  directly  at  issue  on  this  point,  I think  there 
will  be  little  trouble  in  determining  which  we  shall  make  ‘ to  give  place  ; ’ or, 
if  we  ‘look  to  a large  and  ecided  preponderancy  ’ of  either  talent,  learning, 
or  benevolence,  from  whom  we  shall  ‘ take  our  judgment.’  The  effrontery, 
or,  to  speak  more  charitably,  the  ignorance  of  a reference  to  Paley  on  this 
subject,  and  in  th; ; instance  is  really  marvellous.” 

Now,  does  not  Mr.  Sadler  see  that  the  very  words  which 
he  quotes  from  Paley  contain  in  themselves  a refutation  of 
his  whole  argument  ? Paley  says,  indeed,  as  every  man  in 
his  senses  would  say,  that  in  a certain  case  which  he  has 
specified,  the  more  and  the  less  come  into  question.  But  in 
what  case  ? “ When  we  cannot  resolve  all  appearances  into 

the  benevolence  of  design.”  It  is  better  that  there  should 
be  a little  evil  than  a great  deal  of  evil.  This  is  self-evident. 
But  it  also  self-evident  that  no  evil  is  better  than  a little 
evil.  Why,  then,  is  there  any  evil  ? It  is  a mystery  which 
we  cannot  solve.  It  is  a mystery  which  Paley,  by  the  very 
words  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  quoted,  acknowledges  himself 
unable  to  solve;  and  it  is  because  he  cannot  solve  that 
mystery  that  he  proceeds  to  take  into  consideration  the 
more  and.  the  less.  Believing  in  the  divine  goodness, 
we  must  necessarily  believe  that  the  evils  Avhich  exist  are 
necessary  to  avert  greater  evils.  But  Avhat  those  greater 
evils  are  we  do  not  know.  How  the  happiness  of  any  part 


SADLER^S  REFUTATIvON  REPUTED. 


576 


of  the  sentient  creation  would  be  in  any  respect  diminished 
if,  for  example,  children  cut  their  teeth  without  pain,  we 
cannot  understand.  The  case  is  exactly  the  same  with  the 
principle  of  Mr.  Mai  thus.  If  superfecundity  exists,  it  exists, 
no  doubt,  because  it  is  a less  evil  than  some  other  evil  which 
otherwise  would  exist.  Can  Mr.  Sadler  prove  that  this  is 
an  impossibility  ? 

One  single  expression  which  Mr.  Sadler  employs  on  this 
subject  is  sufficient  to  show  how  utterly  incompetent  he  is 
to  discuss  it.  “On  the  Christian  hypothesis,”  says  he,  “no 
doubt  exists  as  to  the  origin  of  evil.”  lie  does  not,  we  think, 
understand  what  is  meant  by  the  origin  of  evil.  The 
Christian  Scriptures  profess  to  give  no  solution  of  that 
mystery.  They  relate  facts  ; but  they  leave  the  metaphys^ 
ical  question  undetermined.  They  tell  us  that  man  fell ; 
but  why  he  was  not  so  constituted  as  to  be  incapable  of  fall- 
ing, or  why  the  Supreme  Being  has  not  mitigated  the  con- 
sequences of  the  Fall  more  than  they  actually  have  been 
mitigated,  the  Scriptures  did  not  tell  us,  and,  it  may  witli- 
out  presumption  be  said,  could  not  tell  us,  unless  we  had 
been  creatures  different  from  what  we  are.  There  is  some- 
thing, either  in  the  nature  of  our  faculties  or  in  the  nature 
of  the  machinery  employed  by  us  for  the  purpose  of  reason- 
ing, which  condemns  us,  on  this  and  similar  subjects,  to 
hopeless  ignorance.  Man  can  understand  these  high  mat- 
ters only  by  ceasing  to  be  man,  just  as  a fly  can  understand 
a lemma  of  Newton  only  by  ceasing  to  be  a fly.  To  make 
it  an  objection  to  the  Christian  system  that  it  gives  us  no 
solution  of  these  difficulties,  is  to  make  it  an  objection  to  the 
Christian  system  that  it  is  a system  formed  for  human  be- 
ings. Of  the  puzzles  of  the  Academy,  there  is  not  one  which 
does  not  apply  as  strongly  to  Deism  as  to  Christianity,  and 
to  Atheism  as  to  Deism.  There  are  difficulties  in  erery- 
thing.  Yet  we  are  sure  that  something  must  be  true. 

If  revelation  speaks  on  the  subject  of  the  origin  of  evil 
it  speaks  only  to  discourage  dogmatism  and  temerity.  In 
the  most  ancient,  the  most  beautiful,  and  the  most  profound 
of  all  works  on  the  subject,  the  Book  of  Job,  both  the  sufferer 
who  compiains  of  the  divine  government,  and  the  injudi- 
cious advisers  who  attempt  to  defend  it  on  wrong  principles, 
are  silenced  by  the  voice  of  supreme  wisdom,  and  reminded 
that  the  question  is  beyond  the  reach  of  human  intellect. 
St.  Paul  silences  the  supposed  objector,  who  strives  to  force 
him  into  controversy,  in  the  same  manner.  The  church  has 


576  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 

been,  ever  since  the  apostolic  times,  agitated  by  this  ques- 
tion, and  by  a question  wliich  is  insej>arable  from  it,  the 
question  of  fate  and  free-will.  The  greatest  theologians 
and  j)hilosophers  have  acknowledged  that  these  things  were 
too  high  for  them,  and  liave  contented  themselves  with 
hinting  at  what  seemed  to  be  the  most  probable  solution. 
What  says  Johnson?  “All  our  effort  ends  in  belief 
that  for  the  evils  of  life  there  is  some  good  reason, 
and  in  confession  that  the  reason  cannot  be  found.”  What 
says  Paley?  “Of  the  origin  of  evil  no  universal  solution 
has  been  discovered.  I mean  no  solution  which  reaches  to 
all  cases  of  complaint. — The  consideration  of  general  laws, 
although  it  may  concern  the  question  of  the  origin  of  evil 
very  nearly,  which  I think  it  does,  rests  in  views  dispro- 
portionate to  our  faculties,  and  in  a knowledge  which  we 
do  not  possess.  It  serves  rather  to  account  for  the  obscurity 
of  the  subject,  than  to  supply  us  with  distinct  answers  to 
our  difficulties.”  What  says  presumptuous  ignorance? 
“ No  doubt  whatever  exists  as  to  the  origin  of  evil.”  It  is 
remarkable  that  ]Mr.  Sadler  does  not  tell  us  what  his  solu- 
tion is.  The  world,  we  suspect,  will  lose  little  by  his 
silence. 

He  falls  on  the  reviewer  again. 

“ Though  I have  shown,*'  says  he,  “ and  on  authorities  from  which  nono 
can  liglitly  differ,  not  only  the  cruelty  and  immorality  which  this  system 
necessarily  involves,  but  its  most  revolting  feature,  its  gross  partiality,  he  has 
wholly  suppressed  this,  the  most  important  of  my  argument  ; as  even  the 
bare  notice  of  it  would  have  instantly  exposed  tlie  sophistry  to  which  he 
has  had  recourse.  If,  however,  he  would  fairly  meet  the  whole  question, 
let  him  show  me  that  ‘ hydrophobia,’  which  he  gives  as  an  example  of  the 
laws  of  God  and  nature,  is  a calamity  to  which  tlie  poor  alone  are  liable  ; or 
that  ‘ malaria,’  which,  with  singular  infelicity,  he  has  chosen  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  fancied  evils  of  population,  is  a respecter  of  persons.” 

We  said  notbing  about  Ibis  argument,  as  Mr.  Sadler 
calls  it,  merely  because  we  did  not  think  it  worth  while  ', 
and  we  are  half  ashamed  to  say  anything  about  it  now. 
Ihit,  since  Mr.  Sadler  is  so  urgent  for  an  answer,  he  shall 
have  one.  If  there  is  evil,  it  must  be  either  partial  or  uni- 
versal. Which  is  the  better  of  the  two?  Hydrophobia, 
says  this  great  philosopher,  is  no  argument  against  the 
divine  goodness,  because  mad  dogs  bite  rich  and  poor  alike  ; 
but,  if  the  rich  were  exempted,  and  only  nine  people  suf- 
fered for  ten  who  suffer  now,  hydrophobia  would  forthwith, 
simply  because  it  would  produce  less  evil  than  at  present, 
become  an  argument  against  the  divine  goodness ! To 
state  such  a proposition,  is  to  refute  it.  And  is  not  the 


Sadler’s  reputatiok  refuted.  577 

malaria  a respecter  of  persons  ? It  infests  Rome.  Does  it 
infest  London  ? There  are  complaints  peculiar  to  the  tropi- 
cal countries.  There  are  others  which  are  found  only  in 
mountainous  districts  ; others  which  are  confined  to  marshy 
regions  ; others  again  which  run  in  ])articular  families.  Is 
not  this  partiality  V Why  is  it  more  inconsistent  with  the 
divine  goodness  that  poor  men  should  suffer  an  evil  from 
which  rich  men  are  exempt,  than  that  a particular  portion 
of  the  community  should  inherit  gout,  scrofula,  insanity, 
and  other  maladies?  And  are  there  no  miseries  under 
' which,  in  fact,  the  poor  alone  are  suffering?  Mr.  Sadler 
himself  acknowledges,  in  this  very  paragraph,  that  then) 
are  such  ; but  he  tells  us  that  these  calamities  are  the  effects 
of  misgovernmciit,  and  that  this  misgovernment  is  the 
effect  of  political  economy.  Be  it  so.  But  does  he  not 
see  that  he  is  only  removing  the  difficulty  one  step  farther  ? 
Why  does  Providence  suffer  men,  whose  minds  are  filled 
with  false  and  pernicious  notions,  to  have  power  in  the 
state  ? For  good  ends,  we  doubt  not,  if  the  fact  be  so ; but 
for  ends  inscrutable  to  us,  who  see  only  a small  part  of  the 
vast  scheme,  and  who  see  that  small  part  only  for  a short 
period.  Does  Mr.  Sadler  doubt  that  the  Supreme  Being 
has  power  as  absolute  over  the  revolutions  of  political  as 
over  the  organization  of  natural  bodies?  Surely  not ; and, 
if  not,  we  do  not  see  that  he  vindicates  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence by  attributing  the  distresses,  which  the  poor,  as  he 
confesses,  endure,  to  an  error  in  legislation  rather  than  to 
a law  of  physiology.  Turn  the  question  as  we  may,  dis- 
guise it  as  Ave  may,  we  shall  find  that  it  at  last  resolves 
itself  into  the  same  great  enigma, — the  origin  of  physical 
and  moral  evil : an  enigma  Avhich  the  highest  humaq  intel- 
lects have  given  up  in  despair,  but  which  Mr.  Sadler  thinks 
himself  perfectly  able  to  solve. 

He  next  accuses  us  of  having  paused  long  on  verbal 
crilicism.  We  certainly  did  object  to  his  improper  use  of 
the  words,  “ inverse  variation.”  Mr.  Sadler  complains  of 
this  wdth  his  usual  bitterness. 

“ Now  what  is  the  Reviewer’s  quarrel  with  me  on  tnis  occasion  ? That 
ne  does  not  understand  the  meaning  of  my  terms  ? No.  He  acknowl- 
edges the  contraiy.  That  I have  not  fully  explained  the  sense  in  which  I 
have  used  them  ? No.  An  explanation,  he  know^s,  is  immediately  sub- 
joined, though  he  has  carefully  suppressed  it.  That  I have  varied  the 
sense  in  which  I have  applied  them  ? No.  I challenge  him  to  show  it. 
But  he  nevertheless  goes  on  for  many  pages  together  in  arguing  against 
what  he  know's,  and,  in  fact,  acknowledges,  I did  not  mean  ; and  then 
VoL.  I.  —37 


m 


MACAUI.AY  B SnSCELLANKOtTS  WniTINGS. 


turn?  round  and  art^ues  again,  tliough  much  more  fochly,  indeed,  againat 
\rhat  he  says  1 did  ihcan  ! Now,  even  had  1 been  in  error  as  to  the  use  of 
a word,  I apoeal  to  the  reader  whetlier  such  an  unworthy  and  disingenuous 
course  wouln  not,  if  generally  pursued,  make  controversy  on  all  subjects, 
however  important,  that  into  which,  in  such  hands,  it  always  degenerates 
— a dispute  about  words.” 

The  best  way  to  avoid  controversies  about  words  is  to 
use  words  in  their  proper  senses.  Mr.  Sadler  may  think 
our  objection  captious  ; but  how  he  can  tliink  it  disingenu- 
ous we  do  not  well  understand.  If  we  had  represented 
him  as  meaning  what  we  knew  that  he  did  not  mean,  we 
sltould  have  acted  in  a disgraceful  manner.  But  we  did 
not  represent  him,  and  he  allows  that  we  did  not  represent 
him,  as  meaning  what  he  did  not  mean.  We  blamed  him, 
and  with  perfect  justice  and  propriety,  for  saying  what  he 
did  not  mean.  Every  man  has  in  one  sense  a right  to  de- 
fine his  own  terms ; that  is  to  say,  if  he  chooses  to  call  one 
two,  and  two  seven,  it  would  be  alDsurd  to  charge  him  with 
false  arithmetic  for  saying  that  seven  is  the  double  of  one. 
But  it  would  be  perfectly  fair  to  blame  him  for  changing 
the  established  sense  of  words.  The  words,  “ inverse  varia- 
tion,” in  matters  not  purely  scientific,  have  often  been  used 
in  the  loose  way  in  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  used  them.  But 
we  shall  be  surprised  if  we  can  find  a single  instance  of 
their  having  been  so  used  in  a matter  of  pure  arithmetic. 

We  will  illustrate  our  meaning  thus.  Lord  Thurlow,  in 
one  of  his  speeches  about  Indian  affairs,  said  that  one  Has- 
tings was  worth  twenty  Macartneys.  Pie  might,  with  equal 
propriety,  have  said  ten  Macartneys,  or  a hundred  Macart- 
neys. Nor  would  there  have  been  the  least  inconsistency 
in  his  using  all  the  three  expressions  in  one  speech.  But 
would* this  be  an  excuse  for  a financier  who,  in  a matter  of 
account,  should  reason  as  if  ten,  twenty,  and  a hundred 
were  the  same  number  ? 

Mr.  Sadler  tells  us  that  he  purposely  avoided  the  use  of 
the  word  proportion  in  stating  his  principle.  He  seems, 
therefore,  to  allow  that  the  word  proportion  would  have 
l)een  improper.  Yet  he  did  in  fact  employ  it  in  explaining 
his  principle,  accompanied  with  an  awkward  explanation 
intended  to  signify  that,  though  he  said  proportion,  he 
meant  something  quite  different  from  proportion.  We 
should  not  have  said  so  much  on  this  subject,  either  in  our 
former  article,  or  at  ])resent,  but  that  there  is  in  all  Miv 
Sadler’s  writings  an  air  of  scientific  pedantry,  which  renders 
his  errors  fair  game.  W3  v;ill  not  let  the  matter  rest;  and, 


A 

i 

h 


SADLER  S REFUTATION  REFUTED. 


579 


instead  of  assailing  Mr.  Sadler  witli  our  verbal  criticism, 
j)roceed  to  defend  ourselves  against  liis  literal  criticism. 

“ The  Reviewer  promised  his  readers  that  some  curious  results  should 
follow  from  his  shuffling.  We  will  enable  him  to  keej)  his  word. 

“ ‘ In  two  English  counties/  says  he,  ‘ which  contain  from  50  to  100  in- 
habitants on  the  square  mile,  the  births  to  100  marriages  are,  according  to 
Mr.  Sadler,  420  ; but  in  44  departments  of  France,  in  which  there  are  from 
one  to  two  hecatares  [hectares}  to  each  inliabitant,  that  is  to  say,  in  which 
the  ])opulation  is  from  125  to  250,  or  rather  more,  to  the  square  mile,  the 
number  of  births  to  one  hundred  marriages  is  423  and  a fraction.* 

“ The  first  curious  result  is,  that  our  Reviewer  is  ignorant,  not  only  of 
the  name,  but  of  the  extent,  of  a French  hectare  ; otherwise  he  is  guilty  of 
a ])ractice  which,  even  if  transferred  to  the  gambling-table,  would,  I pre- 
Fiime,  prevent  him  from  being  allowed  ever  to  shuffle,  even  there,  again. 
He  was  most  ready  to  pronounce  upon  a mistake  of  one  per  cent,  in  a cal- 
culation of  mine, the  difference  in  no  wise  affecting  the  argument  in  hand  ; 
but  here  I must  inform  him,  that  his  error,  whether  wilfully  or  ignorantly 
put  forth,  involves  his  entire  argument. 

The  French  hectare  1 had  calculated  to  contain  107708iV?r  English  square 
feet,  or  acres  ; Dr.  Kelly  takes  it,  on  authority  which  he  gives,  at 

]07644TWJmny  English  square  feet,  or  2tVbVoV?j  acres.  The  last  French  Annu- 
cures,  however,  state  it,  I perceive,  as  being  equal  to  2/o”ooViy  acres.  The 
difference  is  very  trifling,  and  will  not  in  the  slightest  degree  cover  our  crit- 
ic’s error.  The  first  calculation  gives  about  258tV?t  hectares  to  an  English 
square  mile  ; the  second,  25S{v%  ; the  last,  or  French  calculation,  258f(f{T. 
When,  therefore,  the  Reviewer  calculates  the  population  of  the  departments 
of  France  thus  : ‘ from  one  to  two  hectares  to  each  inhabitant,  that  is  to 
say,  in  which  the  population  is  from  125  to  250,  or  rather  more,  to  the  square 
mile  ; ’ his  ‘ that  is  to  say  ’ is  that  which  he  ought  not  to  have  said — no  rare 
case  with  him,  as  we  shall  sho^v  throughout.” 

We  must  inform  Mr.  Sadler,  in  the  first  place,  that  we 
inserted  the  vowel  which  amuses  him  so  much,  not  from 
ignorance  or  from  carelessness,  but  advisedly,  and  in  con- 
formity with  the  practice  of  several  respectable  writers. 
He  will  find  the  word  hecatare  in  Rees’s  Cyclopa3dia.  He 
will  find  it  also  in  Dr.  Young.  We  prefer  the  form  which 
we  have  employed,  because  it  is  etymologically  correct. 
Mr.  Sadler  seems  not  to  know  that  a hecatare  is  so  called, 
because  it  contains  a hundred  ares. 

We  were  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  extent  as  well 
as  with  the  name  of  a hecatare.  Is  it  at  all  strange  .that  we 
should  use  the  words  ‘‘  250,  or  rather  more,”  in  speaking  of 
258  and  a fraction?  Do  not  people  constantly  employ 
round  numbers  with  still  greater  looseness,  in  translating 
foreign  distances  and  foreign  money?  If  indeed,  as  Mr. 
Sadler  says,  the  difference  which  he  chooses  to  call  an  error 
involved  the  entire  argument,  or  any  part  of  the  argument, 
we  should  have  been  guilty  of  gross  unfairness.  But  it  is 
so.  The  difference  between  258  and  250,  as  even  Mr. 
Sadler  would  see  if  he  were  not  blind  with  fury,  was  a dif- 
ference to  his  advantage.  Our  point  was  this.  The  fecun- 


580 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


dity  of  a dense  population  in  certain  departments  of  France  9 
is  greater  than  that  of  a tliinly  scattered  population  in  cer  1 
tain  counties  of  England.  The  more  dense,  therefore,  the  J 
population  in  tliose  de])artmciits  of  France,  the  stronger  m 
was  our  case.  By  putting  250,  instcjid  of  258,  wo  under  f ; 
stated  our  case.  Mr.  Sadler’s  correction  of  our  orthography  i 
leads  us  to  suspect  that  he  knows  very  little  of  Greek  ; and  i; 
his  correction  of  our  calculation  quite  satisfies  us  that  he 
knows  very  little  of  logic.  J 

But  to  come  to  the  gist  of  the  controversy.  Our  argu  ^ 
ment,  drawn  from  ]\Ir.  Sadler’s  own  Tables,  remains  abso-  t 
lutely  untouched.  lie  makes  excuses  indeed  ; for  an  excuse 
is  the  last  thing  that  Mr.  Sadler  will  ever  want.  There  is 
something  half  laughable  and  half  provoking  in  the  facility  ~ 
with  which  ho  asserts  and  retracts,  says  and  unsays,  exactly 
as  suits  his  argument.  Sometimes  the  register  of  ba])tism 
is  imperfect,  and  sometimes  the  register  of  burials.  Then 
again  these  registers  become  all  at  once  exact  almost  to  an 
unit.  He  brings  forward  a census  of  Prussia  in  proof  of  his 
theory.  We  show  that  it  directly  confutes  his  theory ; and 
it  forthwith  becomes  notoriously  and  grossly  defective.’' 

The  census  of  the  Netherlands  is  not  to  be  easily  dealt  with ; 
and  the  census  of  the  Netherlands  is  therefore  pronounced 
inaccurate.  In  his  book  on  the  Law  of  Population,  he  tells 
us  that  “ in  the  slave-holding  States  of  America,  the  male 
slaves  constitute  a decided  majority  of  that  unfortunate 
class.”  This  fact  we  turned  against  him ; and,  forgetting 
that  he  had  himself  stated  it,  he  tells  that  “ it  is  as  errone- 
ous as  many  other  ideas  which  we  entertain,”  and  that  “he 
will  venture  to  assert  that  the  female  slaves  were,  at  the 
nubile  age,  as  numerous  as  the  males.  The  increase  of  the 
negroes  in  the  United  States  puzzles  him  ; and  he  creates  a 
vast  slave-trade  to  solve  it.  He  confounds  together  things 
perfectly  different ; the  slave-trade  carried  on  under  the 
American  flag  and  the  slave-trade  carried  on  for  the  sup- 
ply of  the  American  soil, — the  slave-trade  with  Africa,  and 
the  internal  slave-trade  between  the  different  States.  lie 
exaggerates  a few  occasional  acts  of  smuggling  into  an  im- 
mense and  regular  importation,  and  makes  his  escape  as 
well  as  he  can  under  cover  of  this  hubbub  of  words.  Doc- 
uments are  authentic  and  facts  true  precisely  in  proportion 
to  the  support  which  they^  afford  to  his  theory.  This  is  one 
way,  undoubtedly,  of  making  books  : but  we  question  much 
whether  it  be  the  way  to  make  discoveries, 


Sadler’s  refutation  refuted. 


581 


As  to  the  inconsistencies  which  we  pointed  out  between 
his  theory  and  his  own  tables,  he  finds  no  difficulty  in  ex- 
plaining them  away  or  facing  them  out.  In  one  case  there 
would  have  been  no  contradiction  if,  instead  of  taking  one 
of  his  tables,  we  had  manipulated  the  number  of  three  tables 
together,  and  taken  the  average.  Another  would  never 
have  existed  if  there  had  not  been  a great  migration  of  peo- 
ple into  Lancashire.  Another  is  not  to  be  got  over  by  any 
device.  But  then  it  is  very  small,  and  of  no  consequence  to 
tl  e argument. 

Here,  indeed,  he  is  perhaps  right.  The  inconsistencies 
whi  we  noticed  were,  in  themselves,  of  little  moment. 
We  gave  them  as  samples, — as  mere  hints,  to  caution  those 
of  our  readers  who  might  also  happen  to  be  readers  of  Mr. 
Sadler  against  being  deceived  by  his  packing.  He  com- 
plains of  the  word  packing.  We  repeat  it;  and,  since  he 
has  defied  us  to  the  proof,  we  will  go  fully  into  the  question 
which,  in  our  last  article,  we  only  glanced  at,  and  prove, 
in  such  a manner  as  shall  not  leave  even  Mr.  Sadler  any 
shadow  of  excuse,  that  his  theory  owes  its  speciousness  to 
packing,  and  to  packing  alone. 

That  our  readers  may  fully  understand  our  reasoning, 
we  will  again  state  what  Mr.  Sadler’s  proposition  is.  He 
asserts  that,  on  a given  space,  the  number  of  children  to  a 
marriage  becomes  less  and  less  as  the  population  becomes 
more  and  more  numerous. 

We  will  begin  with  the  censuses  of  France  as  given  by 
Mr.  Sadler.  By  joining  the  departments  together  in  com- 
binations which  suit  his  purpose,  he  has  contrived  to  pro- 
duce three  tables,  which  he  presents  as  decisive  proofs  of 
his  theory. 

The  first  is  as  follows  : — 


The  legitimate  births  are,  in  those  departments  where  there  are  to  each 
Inhabitant— 

From  4 to  5 hects.  (2  departments)  to  every  1000  marriages  5130 


3to4  . . (3do) 4372 

2to3  . . (30do) 4250 

lto2  . . (44do) 4234 

•06  to  1 ..  (5  do) 4146 

and*06  . . (1  do) 2657 


The  two  other  computations  he  has  given  as  one  table 
We  subjoin  it. 


582 


MACAULAy’H  MT8CKLLANEOU8  WRITINGS. 


Ilect.  to  each 
Inhabitant. 

Number  of 
Departments. 

Legit.  Births  to 
100  Marriages. 

Legit.  Births  to 
100  Mar.  (1826. 

4 to  5 

2 

497 

397 

3 to  4 

8 

439 

389 

2 to  3 

80 

424 

379 

lto2 

44 

420 

376 

under  1 

5 

415 

372 

and  06 

1 

263 

253 

These  tables,  as  we  said  in  our  former  article,  certainly 
look  well  from  Mr.  Sadler’s  theory.  “Do  they?”  says  he. 
“ Assuredly  they  do ; and  in  admitting  this,  the  Reviewer 
lias  admitted  the  theory  to  be  proved.”  We  cannot  abso- 
lutely agree  to  this.  A theory  is  not  proved,  we  must 
tell  Mr.  Sadler,  merely  because  the  evidence  in  its  favor 
looks  well  at  first  sight.  There  is  an  old  proverb,  very 
homely  in  expression,  but  well  deserving  to  be  had  in  con- 
stant remembrance  by  all  men,  engaged  either  in  action  or 
in  speculation — “ One  story  is  good  till  another  is  told ! ” 

We  affirm,  then,  that  the  results  which  these  tables  pre- 
sent, and  which  seem  so  favorable  to  Mr.  Sadler’s  theory, 
are  produced  by  packing,  and  by  packing  alone. 

In  the  first  place,  if  we  look  at  the  departments  singly, 
the  whole  is  in  disorder.  About  the  department  in  which 
Paris  is  situated  there  is  no  dispute : Mr.  Malthus  distinctly 
admits  that  great  cities  prevent  propagation.  There  remain 
eighty-four  departments ; and  of  these  there  is  not,  we  be- 
lieve, a single  one  in  the  place  which,  according  to  Mr.  Sad- 
ler’s principle,  it  ought  to  occupy. 

That  which  ought  to  be  highest  in  fecundity  is  tenth  in 
one  table,  fourteenth  in  another,  and  only  thirty-first  ac- 
cording to  the  third.  That  which  ought  to  be  third  is 
twenty-second  by  the  table,  which  places  it  highest.  That 
which  ought  to  be  fourth  is  fortieth  by  the  table,  which 
places  it  highest.  That  which  ought  to  be  eighth  is  fiftieth 
or  sixtieth.  That  which  ought  to  be  tenth  from  the  top  is 
about  the  same  distance  from  the  bottom.  On  the  other 
hand,  that  which,  according  to  Mr.  Sadler’s  principle,  ought 
to  be  last  but  two  of  all  the  eighty-four  is  third  in  two  of 
the  tables,  and  seventh  in  that  which  places  it  lowest ; and 
that  which  ought  to  be  last  is,  in  one  of  Mr.  Sadler’s  tables, 
above  that  which  ought  to  be  first,  in  two  of  them,  above 
that  which  ought  to  be  third,  and,  in  all  of  them,  above  that 
which  ought  to  be  fourth. 


sadler’s  refutation  refuted. 


583 


By  dividing  the  departments  in  a particular  manner,  Mr. 
Sadler  has  produced  results  which  he  contemplates  with 
great  satisfaction.  But,  if  we  draw  the  lines  a little  higher 
up  or  a little  lower  down,  we  shall  find  that  all  his  calcula- 
tions are  thrown  into  utter  confusion  ; and  that  the  phe- 
nomena, if  they  indicate  anything,  indicate  a law  the  very 
reverse  of  that  which  he  has  propounded. 

Let  us  take,  for  example,  the  thirty-two  departments,  as 
they  stand  in  Mr.  Sadler’s  table,  from  Lozere  to  Meuse  in- 
( lusive,  and  divide  them  into  two  sets  of  sixteen  depait- 
ments  e|ich.  The  set  from  Lozere  and  Loiret  inclusive  con- 
sists of"  those  departments  in  which  the  space  to  each 
inhabitant  is  from  3-8  hecatares  to  2*42.  The  set  from  Can- 
tal  to  Meuse  inclusive  consists  of  those  departments  in  which 
the  space  to  each  inhabitant  is  from  2'42  hectares  to  2*07. 
That  is  to  say,  in  the  former  set  the  inhabitants  are  from 
G8  to  107  on  the  square  mile,  or  thereabouts.  In  the  latter 
they  are  from  107  to  125.  Therefore,  on  Mr.  Sadler’s  prin- 
ciple, the  fecundity  ought  to  be  smaller  in  the  latter  set 
tlian  in  the  former.  It  is,  however,  greater,  and  that  in 
every  one  of  Mr.  Sadler’s  three  tables. 

Let  us  now  go  a little  lower  down,  and  take  another  set 
of  sixteen  departments — those  which  lie  together  in  Mr. 
Sadler’s  tables,  from  Herault  to  J ura  inclusive.  Here  the 
population  is  still  thicker  than  in  the  second  of  those  sets 
wliich  we  before  compared.  The  fecundity,  therefore,  ought, 
on  Mr.  Sadler’s  principle,  to  be  less  than  in  that  set.  But 
it  is  again  greater,  and  that  in  all  Mr.  Sadler’s  three  tables. 
We  have  a regular  ascending  series,  where,  if  his  theory 
liad  any  truth  in  it,  we  ought  to  have  a regularly  descend* 
ing  series.  We  will  give  the  results  of  our  calculation. 

The  number  of  children  to  1000  marriages  is — 


First  Table. 

Second  Table. 

Third  Table. 

In  the  sixteen  departments 
•where  there  are  from  68 
to  107  people  on  a square 
mile 

4188 

4226 

3780 

Ill  the  sixteen  departments 
where  there  are  from  107 
“ to  125  people  on  a square 
mile 

4374 

4332 

3855 

In  the  sixteen  departments 
where  there  are  from  134 
to  125  people  on  a square 
mile  . 

m 

441Q 

3914 

584  Macaulay’s  mtscellaxeous  writings. 

We  will  give  another  instance,  if  possil)le  still  more  de- 
cisive. We  will  take  the  three  departments  of  France  which 
ought,  on  Mr.  Sadler’s  principle,  to  be  the  lowest  in  fecun- 
dity of  all  the  eighty-five,  saving  only  th^t  in  which  Paris 
stands ; and  we  will  compare  them  with  the  three  depart- 
ments in  which  the  fecundity  ought,  according  to  him,  to  bo 
greater  than  in  any  other  department  of  France,  two  only 
excepted.  We  will  compare  Bas  Rhin,  Rhone,  and  Nord, 
with  Lozere,  Landes,  and  Indre.  In  Lozere,  Landes,  and 
Indre,  the  population  is  from  68  to  84  on  the  square  mile, 
or  nearly  so.  In  Bas  Rhin,  Rhone,  and  Nord,  it  is  from 
300  to  417  on  the  square  mile.  There  cannot  be“  a more 
overwhelming  answer  to  Mr.  Sadler’s  theory  than  the  table 
which  we  subjoin : 

The  number  of  births  to  1000  marriages  is — 


First  Table. 

Second  Table. 

Third  Tabla 

In  the  three  departments  in 
which  there  are  from  68 
to  84  people  on  the  square 
mile 

4372 

4390 

3890 

In  the  three  departments  in 
which  there  are  from  300 
to  417  people  on  the  square 
mile 

4457 

4510 

4060 

These  are  strong  cases.  But  we  have  a still  stronger 
case.  Take  the  whole  of  the  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  divis- 
ions into  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  portioned  out  the  French 
departments.  These  three  divisions  make  up  almost  the 
whole  kingdom  of  France.  They  contain  seventy-nine  out 
of  the  eighty-five  departments.  Mr.  Sadler  bas  contrived  to 
divide  them  in  such  a manner  that,  to  a person  who  looks 
merii  y at  his  averages,  the  fecundity  seems  to  diminish  as 
the  population  thickens.  We  will  separate  them  into  two 
parts  instead  of  three.  We  will  draw  the  line  between  the 
department  of  Gironde  and  that  of  Herault.  On  the  one 
side  are  the  thirty-two  departments  from  Cher  to  Gironde 
inclusive.  On  the  other  side  are  the  forty-six  departments 
from  Herault  to  Nord  inclusive.  In  all  the  departments  of 
the  former  set,  the  population  is  under  132  on  the  square 
mile.  It  is  clear  that,  if  there  be  one  word  of  truth  in  Mr, 
Sadler’s  theory,  the  fecundity  of  the  latter  of  these  divisions 
must  be  very  decidedly  smaller  than  in  the  former.  Is  it 


sadleb’s  refutation  reputed. 


585 


BO  ? It  is,  on  the  contrary,  greater  in  all  the  three  tables. 
We  give  the  rebult. 

The  number  of  births  to  1000  marriages  is— 


First  Table. 

Second  Table. 

Third  Table. 

In  the  thirty-two  departments 
in  which  there  are  from  86 
to  132  people  on  the  square 
mile 

r\ 

4210 

4199 

3760 

In  the  forty-seven  depart- 
ments in  which  there  are 
from  132  to  417  people  on 
tlie  square  mile  .... 

4260 

4224 

3766 

This  fact  is  alone  enough  to  decide  the  question.  Yet 
it  is  only  one  of  a crowd  of  similar  facts.  If  the  line  be- 
tween Mr.  Sadler’s  second  and  third  divisions  be  drawn  six 
departments  lower  down,  the  third  and  fourth  divisions  will, 
in  all  the  tables,  be  above  the  second.  If  the  line  between 
the  third  and  fourth  divisions  be  drawn  two  dejiartments 
lower  down,  the  fourth  division  will  be  above  the  third  in 
all  the  tables.  If  the  line  between  the  fourth  and  fifth  divis- 
ions be  drawn  two  departments  lower  down,  the  fifth  will, 
in  all  the  tables,  be  above  the  fourth,  above  the  third,  and 
even  above  the  second.  How  then  has  Mr.  Sadler  ob- 
tained his  results  ? .By  packing  solely.  By  placing  in  one 
compartment  a district  no  larger  than  the  Isle  of  Wight  5 
in  another,  a district  somewhat  less  than  Yorkshire ; in  a 
third,  a territory  much  larger  than  the  island  of  Great 
Britain, 

By  the  same  artifice  it  is  that  he  has  obtained  from  the 
census  of  England  those  delusive  averages  which  he  brings 
forward  with  the  utmost  ostentation  in  proof  of  his  prin- 
ciple. We  will  examine  the  facts  relating  to  England,  as 
we  have  examined  those  relating  to  France. 

If  we  look  at  the  counties  one  by  one,  Mr.  Sadler’s  prin- 
ciple utterly  fails.  Hertfordshire  with  251,  on  the  square 
mile;  Worcestershire  with  258;  and  Kent  with  282,  exhibit 
a far  greater  fecundity  than  the  East-Riding  of  York,  which 
has  151  on  the  square  mile;  Monmouthshire,  which  has 
145  ; or  Northumberland,  which  has  108.  The  fecundity  ol 
Staffordshire,  which  has  more  than  300  on  the  square  mile, 
is  as  high  as  the  average  fecundity  of  the  counties  which 
have  from  150  to  200  on  the  square  nile.  Butj  instead  oi 


586 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


confining  ourselves  to  particular  instances,  we  will  try 
masses. 

Take  tlie  eight  counties  of  England  which  stand  together 
in  Mr.  Sadler’s  list,  from  Cumberland  to  Dorset  inclusive. 
In  these  the  population  is  from  107  to  150  on  the  square 
mile.  Compare  with  these  the  eight  counties  from  Berks 
to  Durham  inclusive,  in  whicli  the  population  is  from  1 75 
to  200  on  the  square  mile.  Is  the  fecundity  in  tlie  latter 
counties  smaller  than  in  the  former?  On  the  contrary, 
the  result  stands  thus  : 

, The  number  of  children  to  100  marriages  is — 

In  the  eight  counties  of  England,  in  which  there  are 
from  107  to  146  people  on  the  square  mile  . . . 388 

In  the  eight  counties  of  England,  in  which  there  are 
from  175  to  200  people  on  the  square  mile  . . . 402 

Take  the  six  districts  from  the  East-Riding  of  York  to  the 
County  of  Norfolk  inclusive.  Here  the  population  is  from 
150  to  170  on  the  square  mile.  To  these  oppose  the  six 
counties  from  Derby  to  Worcester  inclusive.  The  popula- 
tion is  from  200  to  260.  Here  again  we  find  that  a law, 
directly  the  reverse  of  that  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  laid  down, 
appears  to  regulate  the  fecundity  of  the  inhabitants. 

The  number  of  children  to  100  marriages  is — 


In  the  six  counties  in  which  there  are  from  150  to 

170  people  on  the  square  mile 392 

In  the  six  counties  in  which  there  are  from  200  to 

to  260  i^eople  on  the  square  mile 399 


But  we  will  make  another  experiment  on  Mr.  Sadler’s 
tables,  if  possible  more  decisive  than  any  of  those  which  we 
have  hitherto  made.  We  will  take  the  four  largest  divis- 
ions into  which  he  has  distributed  the  English  counties,  and 
which  follow  each  other  in  regular  order.  That  our  reader? 
may  fully  comprehend  the  nature  of  that  packing  by  which 
his  theory  is  supported,  we  will  set  before  them  tbis  part  oi 
his  table. 


SADLER’S  ERPUTATIOK  REEOTSl), 


587 


OOUNTIEB. 

Population  on  & 
Square  Mile. 

Population  in 
1821. 

Square  Miles  iis  { 
each  County.  | 

Number  of 
Marriages  from 
1810  to  1820. 

J 

Number  of 
Baptisms  from 
1810  to  1820 

Proportion  of  ( 
Births  to  100 
Marriages. 

Lincoln  .... 

105 

288,800 

2748 

20,892 

87,620 

Ciiraberland  . . . 

107 

159,300 

1478 

10,299 

45,085 

Nortliumberland.  . 

108 

203,000 

1871 

12,997 

45,871 

Hereford  .... 

122 

. 105,300 

860 

6,202 

27,909 

Rutland  .... 

127 

18,900 

149 

1,286 

5,125 

Huntingdon  . . . 

131 

49,800 

370 

3,766 

13,633 

Cambridge  . . . 

145 

124,400 

858 

9,894 

37,491 

Monmouth  , . . 

145 

72,300 

498 

4,586 

13,411 

Dorset 

146 

147,400 

1005 

9,554 

39,060 

From  100  to  150. 

79,476 

315,205 

396 

York,  East  Riding  . 
Salop 

151 

194,300 

1280 

15,313 

55,606 

153 

210,300 

1341 

13,613 

58,542 

Sussex 

1G2 

237,700 

1463 

15,779 

68,700 

Northampton  . . 

1G3 

165,800 

1017 

12,346 

42,336 

Wilts 

1G4 

226,600 

1379 

15  G54 

58,845 

Norfolk  .... 

1G8 

351,300 

2092 

25,752 

102,259 

Devon  

173 

447,900 

2579 

35,264 

130,758 

Southampton . . . 

177 

289,000 

1G28 

24,561 

88,170 

Berks 

178 

134,700 

756 

9,301 

38,841 

Suffolk 

182 

276,000 

1512 

19,885 

76,327 

Bedford  .... 

184 

85,400 

463 

6,536 

22,871 

Buckingham  . . . 

185 

136,800 

740 

9,505 

37,518 

Oxford 

186 

139,800 

752 

9,131 

39,633 

Essex 

193 

295,300 

1532 

19,726 

79,792 

Cornwall  .... 

198 

262,600 

1327 

17,363 

74,611 

Durham  .... 

199 

211,900 

1031 

14,787 

58,222 

From  150  fo  200. 

264,516 

1,033,039 

390 

Derby  ..... 

217,600 

1026 

14,226 

68,804 

Somerset  .... 

212 

362,500 

1642 

24,356 

95,802 

Leicester  .... 

220 

178,100 

804 

13,366 

47,013 

Nottingham  . . . 

221 

190,700 

837 

14,296 

55,517 

228 



From  200  to  250. 

66,244 

267,136 

388 

Hertford  .... 

251 

132,400 

528 

7,386 

35,741 

Worcester .... 

258 

188,200 

729 

13,178 

63,838 

Chester 

262 

275,500 

1052 

20,305 

75,012 

Gloucester  . , , 

272 

342,600 

1256 

28,884 

90,671 

Kent 

282 

mm 

1537 

33,502 

135,060 

Fr(ym  250  to  300. 

103,255 

390*322 

879 

588  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Tliese  averages  look  well,  undoubtedly,  for  Mr.  Sadler’s 
theory.  The  numbers  39G,  390,  388,  378,  follow  eacli  other 
verj^  speciously  in  a descending  order.  But  let  our  readers 
divide  these  thirty-four  counties  into  two  equal  sets  of  sev- 
enteen counties  each,  and  try  whether  the  principle  will 
then  hold  good.  We  have  made  this  calculation,  and  we 
j)resent  them  with  the  following  result. 

The  number  of  children  to  100  marriages  is — 

In  the  seventeen  counties  of  England  in  which  there 

are  from  100  to  177  people  on  the  square  mile  . 387 

In  the  seventeen  counties  in  which  there  are  from 

177  to  282  peojile  on  the  square  mile  . . . 389 

The  difference  is  small,  but  not  smaller  than  differences 
which  Mr.  Sadler  has  brought  forward  as  proofs  of  his 
theory.  We  say,  that  these  English  tables  no  more  prove 
that  fecundity  increases  with  the  population  than  that 
it  diminishes  with  the  population.  The  thirty-four  coun 
ties  which  we  have  taken  make  up,  at  least,  four-fifths  of 
the  kingdom  : and  we  see  that,  through  those  thirty-four 
counties,  the  phenomena  are  directly  opposed  to  Mr.  Sadler’s 
principle.  That  in  the  capital,  and  in  great  manufacturing 
towns,  marriages  are  less  prolific  than  in  the  open  country, 
we  admit,  and  Mr.  Malthus  admits.  But  that  any  con- 
densation of  the  population,  short  of  that  which  injures  all 
physical  energies,  will  diminish  the  prolific  j^owers  of  man, 
is,  from  these  very  tables  of  Mr.  Sadler,  completely  dis- 
proved. 

It  is  scarcely  worth  while  to  proceed  with  instances, 
after  proofs  so  overwhelming  as  those  which  we  have  given. 
Yet  we  will  show  that  Mr.  Sadler  has  formed  his  averages 
on  the  census  of  Prussia  by  an  artifice  exactly  similar  to 
that  which  we  have  already  exposed. 

Of  the  census  of  1756  we  will  say  nothing,  as  Mr.  Sadler, 
finding  himself  hard  pressed  by  the  argument  which  we 
drew  from  it,  now  declares  it  to  be  grossly  defective.  We 
confine  ourselves  to  the  census  of  1784  : and  we  wdll  draw 
our  lines  at  points  somewhat  different  from  those  at  which 
Mr.  Sadler  has  drawn  his.  Let  the  first  compartment  re- 
main as  it  stands.  Let  East  Prussia,  which  contains  a much 
larger  population  than  his  last  compartment,  stand  alone  in 
the  second  division.  Let  the  third  consist  of  the  New  Mark, 
the  Mark  of  Brandenburg,  East  Friesland  and  Guelderland, 
and  the  fourth  of  the  rciiiainiug  provinces.  Our  readers 


SADLKR’s  REPUTATION  REFUTED. 


589 


'Will  find  that,  on  this  aiTangement,  the  division  which,  on 
Mr  Sadler’s  principle  ought  to  be  second  in  fecundity 
iitaiids  higher  than  that  which  ought  to  be  first  and  that 
the  division  which  ought  to  be  fourth  stands  liigher  than 
Hihat  which  ought  to  be  third.  We  will  give  the  result  in 
^ne  view. 


Penwnatrating  the  Law  of  Population  from  the  Censuses  of  Prussia^  at  two 
several  Periods. 


Inhabi- 

1 

Births  to 

Births  to 

PROVINCES. 

tants  on  a 

each 

Average. 

eacli 

Average. 

Square 

Marriage. 

Marriage. 

League. 

1756. 

1784. 

West  Prussia  . . 

832 

4-3 

4*34 

4 75 

4*72 

Pomerania  . . . 

928 

4C9 

East  Prussia  . . 

1175 

5 07 

1 

6*10 

New  Mark  . . . 

1190 

4-22 

1 

1 

4*43 

Mark  of  Bran-  1 
denburg  ) 

1790 

3*88 

1 

4*14 

4*60 

4*45 

East  Friesland  . . 

1909 

3*39 

J 

3*66 

Guelderland  . . 

2083 

4*33 

3*74 

Silesia  and  Glatz 

2314 

4*84 

Cleves  

2375 

3*80 

4*03 

Minden  and  . ) 

Ravensburg  ) 

2549 

3*67 

> 3*84 

4*31 

■4*24 

Magdeburg  . . . 

2692 

, 4-03 

4*57 

Neufchatel,  &c. . . 

2700 

3*39 

3*98 

Ilalberstadt  . . . 

3142 

3*71 

1 

1 

4*48 

> 

1 

Tickliugburg  . ) 

and  Lingen  ) 

3461 

3*69 

1 

[ 3*65 

3*69 

[ 4*08 

The  number  of  births  to  a marriage  is — 

In  those  provinces  of  Prussia  where  there  are  fewer  than  1000  people 

on  the  square  league 4*72 

In  the  province  in  which  there  are  1175  people  on  the  square  league  5'10 
111  the  provinces  in  which  there  are  from  1190  to  2083  people  on  the 

square  mile 4i0 

In  the  provinces  in  which  there  are  from  2314  to  34G1  people  on  the 

square  league  4 '27 

We  will  go  no  farther  with  this  examination.  In  fact, 

we  have  nothing  more  to  examine.  The  tables  which  we 
have  scrutinized  constitute  the  whole  strength  of  Mr.  Sadler’s 
case ; and  we  confidently  leave  it  to  our  readers  to  say, 
whether  we  have  not  shown  that  the  strength  of  his  case  is 
weakness. 

Be  it  remembered  too  that  we  are  reasoning  on  data 


690 


MACAULAY’S  mSCELLANEOUS  WRTTTN-Gfl. 


furnished  by  Mr.  Sadler  himself.  We  have  not  made  col- 
lections of  facts  to  set  against  his,  as  wo  easily  might  have 
done.  It  is  on  his  own  showing,  it  is  out  of  his  own  mouth, 
that  his  theory  stands  condemned. 

That  packing  which  we  have  exposed  is  not  the  onl^ 
sort  of  packing  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  practised.  We  men- 
tioned in  our  review  some  facts  relating  to  the  towns  of 
England,  Avhich  appear  from  Mr.  Sadler’s  tables,  and  whicl) 
it  seems  impossible  to  explain  if  his  principles  be  sound. 
The  average  fecundity  of  a marriage  in  towns  of  fewer  than 
8000  inhabitants  is  greater  than  the  average  fecundity  of 
the  kingdom.  The  average  fecundity  in  towns  of  from 
4030  to  5000  inhabitants  is  greater  than  the  average  fecun- 
dity of  Warwickshire,  Lancashire,  or  Surrey.  IIow  is  it,  we 
asked,  if  Mr.  Sadler’s  principle  be  correct,  that  the  fecundity 
of  Guildford  should  be  greater  than  the  averge  fecundity 
of  the  county  in  which  it  stands  ? 

Mr.  Sadler,  in  reply,  talks  about  ‘‘  the  absurdity  of  com- 
paring the  fecundity  in  the  small  towns  alluded  to  with  that 
in  the  counties  of  Warwick  and  Stafford,  or  those  of  Lan- 
caster and  Surrey.”  He  proceeds  thus  : — 

“ In  Warwickshire,  far  above  half  the  population  is  comprised  in  large 
towns,  including,  of  course,  the  immense  metropolis  of  one  great  branch  of 
our  manufactures,  Birmingham.  In  the  county  of  Stafford,  besides  the 
large  and  populous  towns  in  its  iron  districts,  situated  so  close  together  as 
almost  to  form,  for  considerable  distances,  a continuous  street;  there  is,  in 
its  potteries,  a great  population,  recently  accumulated,  not  included,  indeed, 
in  the  towns  distinctly  enumerated  in  the  censuses,  but  vastly  exceeding  in 
its  condensation  that  found  in  the  i3laces  to  which  the  Reviewer  alludes.  In 
Lancashire  again,  to  which  he  also  appeals,  one-fourth  of  the  entire  popula- 
tion is  made  up  oJSrthe  inhabitants  of  two  only  of  the  towns  of  that  county ; far 
above  half  of  it  is  contained  in  towns,  compared  with  which  those  he  refers 
to  are  villages ; even  the  hamlets  of  the  manufacturing  parts  of  Lancashire 
aie  often  far  more  populous  than  the  places  he  mentions.  But  he  presents  us 
with  a climax  of  absurdity  in  appealing  lastly  to  the  population  of  Surrey  as 
quite  rural  compared  with  that  of  the  twelve  towns, having  less  than  5000  inliab- 
itants  in  their  respective  jurisdictions,  such  as  Saffrou-Walden,  Monmouth, 
&c.  Now,  in  the  last  census,  Surrey  numbered  398,658  inhabitants,  and,  to 
say  not  a word  about  the  other  towns  of  tho  county,  much  above  two  hun- 
dred thousands  of  these  are  within  the  Bills  of  Mortality!  ‘We  should, 
therefore,  be  glad  to  know  ’ how  it  is  utterly  inconsistent  with  my  i^rinciple 
that  the  fecundity  of  Guildford,  which  numbers  about  3000  inhabitants, 
should  be  greater  than  the  average  fecundity  of  Surrey,  made  up,  as  the 
bulk  of  the  population  of  Surrey  is,  of  the  inhabitants  of  some  of  the  worst 
parts  of  the  metropolis  ? Or  'v\hy  the  fecundity  of  a given  number  of  mar- 
riages in  the  eleven  little  rural  towns  he  alludes  to,  being  somewhat  higher 
than  that  of  an  equal  number,  half  taken  for  instance,  from  the  heart  of 
Birmingham  or  Manchester,  and  half  from  the  populous  districts  by  which 
they  are  surrounded,  is  inconsistent  with  my  theory  ? 

“ Had  the  Reviewer’s  object,  in  this  instance,  been  to  discover  the  truth, 
or  had  he  known  how  to  pursue  it,  it  is  perfectly  clear,  at  first  sight,  that  he 
would  not  have  instituted  a comparison  between  the  proiificness  which 


SADLER’S  REFUTATION  REFUTED. 


591 


exisis  in  the  small  towns  he  has  alluded  to,  and  that  in  certain  districts,  Uk 
population  of  wliich  is  made  ui>,  partly  of  rural  inhabitants  and  partly  ol 
accumulations  of  people  in  immense  masses,  the  prolificness  of  which,  if  lie 
will  albw  me  still  the  use  of  the  phrase,  is  inversely  as  their  magnitude, 
but  he  vould  have  compared  these  small  towms  with  the  co Aiitry  places 
properly  bo  called,  and  then  again  the  different  classes  of  towns  with  each 
other;  this  method  would  have  led  to  certiiin  conclusions  on  the  subject.” 

Now,  this  reply  shows  that  Mr.  Sadler  does  not  in  the 
least  understand  the  priiici])le  which  he  himself  has  laid 
down.  What  is  that  principle  ? It  is  this,  that  the  feciiH’ 
dity  of  human  beings  on  given  spaces^  varies  inversely  as 
their  numbers.  We  know  what  he  means  by  inverse  varia- 
tion. But  we  must  suppose  that  he  uses  the  words,  “given 
spaces  ” in  the  proper  sense.  Given  spaces  are  equal 
spaces.  Is  there  any  reason  to  believe,  that  in  those  parts 
of  Surrey  which  lie  within  the  bills  of  mortality  there  is  any 
space,  equal  in  area  to  the  space  on  which  Guildford  stands, 
which  is  more  thickly  peopled  than  the  space  on  which 
Guildford  stands?  We  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  such. 
We  are  sure  that  there  are  not  many.  Why,  therefore,  on 
Mr.  Sadler’s  principle,  should  the  people  of  Guildford  be 
more  prolific  than  the  people  who  live  within  the  bills  of 
mortality  ? And,  if  the  people  of  Guildford  ought,  as  on 
Mr.  Sadler’s  principle  they  unquestionably  ought,  to  stand 
as  low  in  the  scale  of  fecundity  as  the  people  of  Southwark 
itself,  it  follows,  most  clearly,  that  they  ought  to  stand  far 
lower  than  the  average  obtained  by  taking  all  the  people  of 
Surrey  together. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  the  case  of  Birmingham, 
and  to  all  the  other  cases  which  Mr.  Sadler  mentions. 
Towns  of  5000  inhabitants  may  be,  and  often  are,  as  thickly 
peopled,  “ on  a given  space,”  as  Birmingham.  They  are, 
in  other  words,  as  thickly  peopled  as  a portion  of  Birming- 
ham, equal  to  them  in  area.  If  so,  on  Mr.  Sadler’s  principle, 
they  ought  to  be  as  low  in  the  scale  of  fecundity  as  Bir- 
mingham. But  they  are  not  so.  On  the  contrary,  they 
stand  higher  than  the  average  obtained  by  taking  the  fecun- 
dity of  Birmingham  in  combination  with  the  fecundity  of 
the  rural  districts  of  Warwickshire. 

The  plain  fact  is  that  Mr.  Sadler  has  confounded  the 
population  of  a city  with  its  population  “ on  a given  space,” 
—a  mistake  which,  in  a gentleman  who  assures  us  that 
mathematical  science  was  one  of  his  early  and  favorite 
Sadies,  is  somewhat  curious.  It  is  as  absurd,  on  his  prin- 
ciple, to  say  that  the  fecundity  of  London  ought  to  be  less 


592 


Macaulay’s  misckllaxkoi.  s aviutings. 


than  the  fecundity  of  Edinburgh,  because  London  has 
greater  population  than  Edinburgh,  as  to  say  that  the  fe- 
cundity of  Russia  ouglit  to  be  greate/’  than  that  of  England, 
because  Russia  has  a greater  population  than  England.  IFo 
cannot  say  that  the  spaces  on  whicl  towns  stand  are  1<jo 
small  to  exemj)lify  the  truth  of  his  principle.  For  ho  has 
himself  brought  forward  the  scale  of  fecundity  in  towns,  as 
a proof  of  his  principle.  And,  in  th«>  very  passage  which  we 
:juoted  above,  he  tells  us  that  if  we  knew  how  to  pursue 
truth,  or  wished  to  find  it,  we  “ should  have  compared  these 
small  towns  with  country  ])laces,  and  the  different  classes 
of  towns  Avith  each  other.”  That  ir>  to  say,  Ave  ought  to 
compare  together  such  unequal  spaces  as  give  results  favor- 
able to  his  theory,  and  neA^er  to  com}  are  such  equal  spaces 
as  give  results  opposed  to  it.  Does  be  mean  any  thing  by 
“ a given  space  ? ” Or  does  he  mean  merely  such  a space  as 
suits  his  argument  ? It  is  perfectly  clear  that,  if  he  is  al- 
lowed to  take  this  course,  he  may  prove  anything.  No  fact 
can  come  amiss  to  him.  Suppose,  for  example,  that  the 
fecundity  of  Ncav  York  should  prove  to  be  smaller  than  the 
fecundity  of  Liverpool.  “ That,”  says  Mr.  Sadler,  ‘‘  makes 
for  my  theory.  For  there  are  more  people  Avithin  two  miles 
of  the  Broadway  of  NeAV  York,  than  within  two  miles  ot 
the  Exchange  of  Liverpool.”  Suppose,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  the  fecundity  of  Ncav  York  should  be  greater  than  the 
fecundity  of  Liverpool.  This,”  says  Mr.  Sadler  again,  “ is 
an  unanswerable  proof  of  my  theory.  For  there  are  many 
more  people  within  forty  miles  of  Liverpool  than  within  forty 
miles  of  New  York.”  In  order  to  obtain  his  numbers,  he 
takes  spaces  in  any  combinations  which  may  suit  him.  In 
order  to  obtain  his  averages,  he  takes  numbers  in  any  com- 
binations which  may  suit  him.  And  then  he  tells  us  that, 
because  his  tables,  at  the  first  glance,  look  well  for  his  theory, 
his  theory  is  irrefragably  proved. 

We  will  add  a few  Avords  respecting  the  argument  which 
we  drew  from  the  peerage.  Mr.  Sadler  asserted  that  the 
Peers  were  a class  condemned  by  nature  to  sterility.  We 
denied  this,  and  showed,  from  the  last  edition  of  Dcbrett, 
that  the  Peers  of  the  United  Kingdom  have  considerably 
more  than  the  average  number  of  children  to  a marriage. 
Mr.  Sadler’s  ansAver  has  amused  us  much.  He  denies  the 
accuracy  of  the  counting,  and  by  reckoning  all  the  Scotch 
and  Irish  Peers  as  Peers  of  the  United  Kingdom,  certainly 
makes  very  diiierest  numbers  from  thorn  Avhich  wa  gave* 


Sadler’s  refutation  refuted. 


A member  of  the  Parliament  of  the  United  Kingdom  might 
have  been  expected,  we  think,  to  know  better  what  a Peer 
of  the  United  Kingdom  is. 

By  taking  the  Scotch  and  Irish  Peers,  Mr.  Sadler  has 
altered  the  average.  But  it  is  considerably  higher  than  the 
average  fecundity  of  England,  and  still,  therefore,  consti- 
tutes an  unanswerable  argument  against  his  theory. 

The  shifts  to  which,  in  this  difficulty,  he  has  recourse, 
are  exceedingly  diverting.  “ The  average  fecundity  of  the 
marriages  of  Peers,”  said  we,  “is  higher  by  one-fifth  than 
the  average  fecundity  of  marriages  throughout  the  king- 
dom.” 

“ Where,  or  by  whom  did  the  Reviewer  find  it  supposcii,” 
answers  Mr.  Sadler,  “that  the  registered  baptisms  ex- 
pressed the  full  fecundity  of  the  marriages  of  England  ? ” 

Assuredly,  if  the  registers  of  England  are  so  defective 
as  to  explain  the  difference  which,  on  our  calculation,  ex- 
ists between  the  fecundity  of  the  peers  and  the  fecundity 
of  the  people,  no  argument  against  Mr.  Sadler’s  theory  can 
be  drawn  from  that  difference.  But  what  becomes  of  all 
tlie  other  arguments  which  Mr.  Sadler  has  founded  on 
tlicse  very  registers?  Above  all,  what  becomes  of  his  com- 
j^arison  between  the  censuses  of  England  and  France  ? In 
the  pamphlet  before  us,  he  dwells  with  great  complacency 
on  a coincidence  which  seems  to  him  to  support  his  theory, 
and  which  to  us  seems,  of  itself,  sufficient  to  overthrow  it. 

“ In  my  table  of  the  population  of  France,  in  the  forty-four  departments 
in  which  there  are  from  one  to  two  hectares  to  each  inhabitant,  the  fecundity 
of  100  marriages,  calculated  on  the  average  of  the  results  of  the  three  com- 
putations relating  to  different  periods  given  in  my  table,  is  406  In  the 
twenty-two  counties  of  England,  in  which  there  is  from  one  to  two  hectares 
to  each  inhabitant,  or  from  129  to  259  on  the  square  mile, — beginning,  there- 
fore, with  Huntingdonshire,  and  ending  with  Worcestershire, — the  whole 
number  of  marriages  during  ten  years  will  be  found  to  amount  to  379,624, 
and  the  whole  number  of  the  births  during  the  same  term  to  1,545,549 — or 
407  tV  births  to  100  marriages  ! A difference  of  one  in  one  thousand  only, 
compared  with  the  French  proportion  ! 

Does  not  Mr.  Sadler  see  that,  if  the  registers  of  England 
which  are  notoriously  very  defective,  give  a result  exactly 
corresponding  almost  to  an  unit  with  that  obtained  from 
the  registers  of  France,  which  are  notoriously  very  full  and 
accurate,  this  proves  the  very  reverse  of  what  he  employs 
it  to  prove  ? The  correspondence  of  the  registers  proves 
that  there  is  no  correspondence  in  the  facts.  In  order  to 
raise  the  average  fecundity  of  England  even  to  the  level  of 
the  average  fecundity  of  the  peers  of  the  three  kingdoms^ 

o * *■’ 


694 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


which  is  3*81  to  a,  marriage,  it  is  necessary  to  add  nearly 
six  per  cent,  to  the  numl)er  of  birtlis  given  in  the  English 
registers.  But,  if  this  addition  1>e  made,  we  shall  have,  in 
the  counties  of  England,  from  Huntingdonshire  to  Worces- 
tershire inclusive,  4*30  births  to  a mai  riage  or  thei  eabouts  ; 
and  the  boasted  coincidence  between  the  phenomena  of 
propagation  in  Franco  and  England  disappears  at  once. 
This  is  a curious  specimen  of  Mr.  Sadler’s  proficiency  in 
the  art  of  making  excuses.  In  the  same  ])amphlet  he  reasons 
as  if  the  same  registers  were  accurate  to  one  in  a thousard, 
and  as  if  they  were  wrong  at  the  very  least  by  one  in  eigh- 
teen. 

He  tries  to  show’’  that  we  have  not  taken  a fair  criterion  of 
the  fecundity  of  the  peers.  W e are  not  quite  sure  that  we 
understand  his  reasoning  on  this  subject.  The  order  of  his 
observations  is  more  than  usually  confused,  and  the  cloud 
of  words  more  than  usually  thick.  W e will  give  the  argu- 
ment on  which  he  seems  to  lay  most  stress  in  his  own  words 

“ But  I shall  first  notice  a far  more  obvious  and  important  blunder  into 
which  the  Reviewer  has  fallen  ; or  into  w'hich,  I rather  fear,  he  knowingly 
wishes  to  precipitate  his  readers,  since  I have  distinctly  pointed  out  what 
ought  to  have  preserved  him  from  it  in  the  very  chapter  he  is  criticising  and 
contradicting.  It  is  this  : — he  has  entirely  omitted  “ counting”  the  sterile 
marriages  of  all  those  peerages  which  have  become  extinct  during  the  very 

{period  his  counting  embraces.  He  counts,  for  instance,  Earl  Fitzwilliam, 
lis  marriages,  and  lieir  ; but  has  he  not  omitted  to  enumerate  the  marriages 
of  those  branches  of  the  same  noble  house,  which  have  become  extinct  since 
that  venerable  individual  possessed  his  title  ? He  talks  of  my  having  ap- 
pealed merely  to  the  extinction  of  peerages  in  my  argument  f but,  on  his 
plan  of  computing,  extinctions  are  perpetually  and  wholly  lost  sight  of.  In 
computing  the  average  prolificness  of  the  marriages  of  the  nobles,  he  posi- 
tively counts  from  a select  class  of  them  only,  one  from  which  the  unprolific 
are  constantly  weeded,  and  regularly  disappear  ; and  he  thus  comes  to  the 
conclusion,  that  the  peers  are  ‘ an  eminently  prolific  class  ! ’ Just  as  though 
a farmer  should  compute  the  rate  of  increase,  not  from  the  quantity  of  seed 
sown,  but  from  that  part  of  it  only  which  comes  to  perfection,  entirely  omit- 
ting all  which  had  failed  to  spring  up  or  come  to  maturity.  Upon  this  prin- 
ciple the  most  scanty  crop  ever  obtained,  in  which  the  husband-man  should 
fail  to  receive  ‘seed  again,’  as  the  phrase  is,  might  be  so  ‘counted  as  to 
appear  ‘ eminently  prolific  ’ indeed.”' 

If  we  understand  this  passage  rightly,  it  decisively 
proves  that  Mr.  Sadler  is  incompetent  to  perform  even  the 
.lowest  offices  of  statistical  research.  What  shadow  of  rea- 
son is  there  to  believe  that  the  peers  who  were  alive  in  the 
year  1828  differed  as  to  their  prolificness  from  any  other 
equally  numerous  set  of  peers  taken  at  random  ? In  what 
sense  were  the  peers  who  were  alive  in  1828  analogous  to 
hat  part  of  the  seed  which  comes  to  perfection  ? Did  we 


bablee's  refutation  refuted.  596 

entirely  omit  all  tliat  failed?  On  tlie  contrary,  we  counted 
the  sterile  as  Avell  as  tlie  fruitful  marriages  of  all  the  peers 
of  tlie  United  Kingdom  living  at  one  time.  In  what  way 
were  tlie  peers  who  were  alive  in  1828  a select  class?  In 
what  way  were  the  sterile  weeded  from  among  them?  Did 
every  peer  who  had  been  married  without  having  issue  die 
in  ifet?  Wliat  shadow  of  reason  is  there  to  suppose  that 
there  was  not  the  ordinary  proportion  of  barren  marriages 
among  tlie  marriages  contracted  by  the  noblemen  whoso 
names  are  in  Debrett’s  last  edition  ? But  we  ought,  says 
Mr.  Sadler,  to  have  counted  all  the  sterile  marriages  of  all 
the  ])cers  “ Avhose  titles  had  become  extinct  during  the 
period  wliicli  our  counting  embraced  that  is  to  say,  since 
the  earliest  marriage  contracted  by  any  peer  living  in  1828. 
Was  such  a proposition  ever  heard  of  before?  Surely  wc 
were  bound  to  do  no  such  thing,  unless  at  the  same  time  we 
had  counted  also  the  children  born  from  all  the  fruitful 
marriages  contracted  by  peers  during  the  same  period. 
Mr.  Sadler  would  have  us  divide  the  number  of  children 
born  to  |)eers  living  in  1828,  not  by  the  number  of  marriages' 
which  those  peers  contracted,  but  by  the  number  of  mar- 
riages which  those  peers  contracted  added  to  a crowd  of 
marriages  selected,  on  account  of  their  sterility,  from  among 
the  noble  marriages  which  have  taken  place  during  the  last 
fifty  years.  Is  this  the  way  to  obtain  fair  averages?  We 
might  as  Avell  require  that  ail  the  noble  marriages  Avhich  dur- 
ing the  last  fifty  years  have  produced  ten  children  apiece 
should  be  added  to  those  of  the  peers  living  in  1828.  The 
proper  way  to  ascertain  whether  a set  of  people  be  prolific 
or  sterile  is,  not  to  take  marriages  selected  from  the  mass 
cither  on  account  of  their  fruitfulness  or  on  account  of  their 
steiility,  but  to  take  a collection  of  marriages  which  there 
is  no  reason  to  think  either  more  or  less  fruitful  than  others. 
What  reason  is  there  to  think  that  the  marriages  contracted 
by  the  peers  who  were  alive  in  1828  were  more  fruitful  than 
those  contracted  by  the  peers  who  were  alive  in  1800  or  in 
1750? 

We  will  add  another  passage  from  Mr.  Sadler’s  pam* 
phlet  on  this  subject.  We  attributed  the  extinction  of  peer- 
ages partly  to  the  fact  that  those  honors  are  for  the  most 
part  limited  to  heirs  male. 

“ This  is  a discovery  indeed  ! Peeresses,  ‘ eminently  prolific,*  do  not,  as 
Macbeth  conjured  his  spouse,  ‘bring  forth  men-children  only;’  they  actual- 
ly produce  daughters  aa  well  as  sous!!  Why,  does  not  the  Reviewer  see^ 


MACAtTLAv’s  MISCELLANKOIIS  \VUlTlx\GS. 

that  80  lonj»  as  tlie  rule  of  nature,  which  proportions  tlie  sexes  so  accnra:rel.y 
to  each  other,  continues  to  exist,  a tendency  to  a diminution  in  one  sex 
proves,  as  certainly  as  the  demonstration  of  any  mathematical  problem,  a 
tendency  to  a diminution  i^'  both;  but  to  talk  of  ‘eminently  prolific’  peer- 
esses, and  still  to  maintain  that  the  raj)id  extinction  in  peerages  is  owing  to 
their  not  bearing  male  children  exclusively,  is  arrant  nonsense.’* 

]STow,  if  there  be  any  proposition  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
which  we  should  not  have  expected  to  hear  characterized  as 
arrant  nonsense,  it  is  this,  — that  an  honor  limited  to  males 
alone  is  more  likely  to  become  extinct  than  an  honor  which, 
like  the  crown  of  England,  descends  indifferently  to  sons 
and  daughters.  We  have  heard,  nay,  we  actually  know 
families,  in  which,  much  as  Mr.  Sadler  may  marvel  at  it,' 
there  are  daughters  and  no  sons.  Nay,  wo  know  many  such 
families.  W e are  as  much  inclined  as  Mvo  Sadler  to  trace 
the  benevolent  and  wise  arrangements  of  Providence  in  the 
physical  world,  when  once  we  are  satisfied  as  to  the  facts  on 
which  we  proceed.  And  we  have  alv/ays  considered  it  as  an 
arrangement  deserving  of  the  highest  admiration,  that, 
though  in  families  the  number  of  males  and  females  differs 
widely,  yet  in  great  collections  of  human  beings  the  dispar- 
ity almost  disappears.  The  chance  undoubtedly  is,  that  in 
a thousand  marriages  the  number  of  daughters  will  not  very 
much  exceed  the  number  of  sons.  But  the  chance  also  is, 
that  several  of  those  marriages  will  produce,  daughters,  and 
daughters  only.  In  every  generation  of  the  peerage  there 
are  several  such  cases.  When  a peer  whose  title  is  limited 
to  male  heirs  dies,  leaving  only  daughters,  his  peerage  must 
expire,  unless  he  have,  not  only  a collateral  heir,  but  a collat- 
eral heir  descended  through  an  uninterrupted  line  of  males 
from  the  first  possessor  of  the  honor.  If  the  deceased  peer 
was  the  first  nobleman  of  his  family,  then,  by  the  supposition, 
his  peerage  will  become  extinct.  If  he  was  the  second,  it 
will  become  extinct,  unless  he  leaves  a brother  or  a brother’s 
son.  If  the  second  23cer  had  a brother,  the  first  peer  must 
nave  had  at  least  two  sons ; and  this  is  more  than  the  aver- 
age number  of  sons  to  a marriage  in  England.  When,  there- 
foi  e,  it  is  considered  how’’  many  peerages  are  in  the  first  and 
second  generation,  it  will  not  appear  strange  that  extinctions 
should  frequently  take  place.  There  are  peerages  which 
descend  to  females  as  well  as  males.  But,  in  such  cases,  if 
a peer  dies,  leaving  only  daughters,  the  very  fecundity  of  the 
marriage  is  a cause  of  the  extinction  of  the  peerage.  If 
there  were  only  one  daughter,  the  honor  w^ould  descend.  If 
there  were  several,  it  falls  into  abeyance. 


SADLER^S  KEEUTATir^X  REFUTED. 


597 


But  it  is  needless  to  niulti])ly  words  in  a case  so  clear: 
and  indeed  it  is  needless  to  say  anytliing  more  about  Mr, 
Sadler’s  book.  We  have,  if  w^e  do  not  deceive  ourselves, 
completely  exposed  the  calculations  on  which  his  theory 
rests ; and  we  do  not  think  that  we  should  either  amuse  our 
readers  or  serve  the  cause  of  science  if  we  were  to  rebut  in 
succession  a series  of  futile  charges  brought  in  the  most 
angry  spirit  against  ourselves , ignorant  imputations  of  igno- 
rance, and  unfair  complaints  of  unfairness,  — conveyed  :n 
long,  dreary  declamations,  so  prolix  that  we  cannot  find 
space  to  quote  them,  and  so  confused  that  we  cannot  venture 
to  abridge  them. 

There  is  much  indeed  in  this  foolish  pamphlet  to  laugh 
at,  from  the  motto  in  the  first  page  down  to  some  wdsdom 
about  coAvs  in  the  last.  One  part  of  it  indeed  is  solemn 
enough,  we  mean  a certain  jeu  d^esprit  of  Mr.  Sadler’s 
touching  a tract  of  Dr.  Arbuthnot’s.  This  is  indeed  very 
tragical  mirth,”  as  Peter  Quince’s  playbill  has  it;  and  we 
would  not  advise  any  person  who  reads  for  amusement  to  ven- 
ture on  it  as  long  as  he  can  procure  a volume  of  the  Statutes 
at  Large.  This,  however,  to  do  Mr.  Sadler  justice,  is  an 
exception.  His  witticisms,  and  his  tables  of  figures,  consti- 
tute the  only  parts  of  his  work  which  can  be  perused  with 
perfect  gravity.  Ilis  blunders  are  diverting,  his  excuses 
exquisitely  comic.  But  his  anger  is  the  most  grotesque 
exhibition  that  we  ever  saw.  He  foams  at  the  mouth  with 
the  love  of  truth,  and  vindicates  the  Divine  benevolence 
wdth  a most  edifying  heartiness  of  hatred.  On  this  subject 
we  wdll  give  him  one  word  of  parting  advice.  If  he  raves 
in  this  way  to  ease  his  mind,  or  because  he  thinks  that  he 
does  himself  credit  by  it,  or  from  a sense  of  religious  duty, 
far  be  it  from  us  to  interfere.  His  peace,  his  reputation,  and 
his  religion  are  his  owm  concern ; and  he,  like  the  nobleman 
to  V horn  his  treatise  is  dedicated,  has  a right  to  do  what  he 
will  with  his  own.  But,  if  he  has  adopted  his  abusive  style 
from  a notion  that  it  would  hurt  our  feelings,  we  must  inform 
him  that  he  is  altogether  mistaken ; and  that  he  would  do 
well  in  future  to  give  us  his  arguments,  if  he  has  any,  and  to 
keep  his  anger  for  those  who  fear  it. 


698 


uacaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings* 


CIVIL  DISABILITIES  OF  THE  JEWS  * 

{Edinburgh  Review^  January ^ 1831.) 

The  distinguished  member  of  the  House  of  Commons 
who,  towards  the  close  of  tlie  late  Parliament,  brought  for*  : 
ward  a proposition  for  the  relief  of  the  Jews,  has  given  notice 
of  his  intention  to  renew  it.  The  force  of  reason,  in  the  last 
session,  carried  the  measure  through  one  stage,  in  spite  of 
the  opposition  of  power.  Reason  and  power  are  now  on  the 
same  side;  and  we  have  little  doubt  that  they  will  conjoint-  ^ 
ly  achieve  a decisive  victory.  In  order  to  contribute  our  J 
share  to  the  success  of  just  principles,  we  propose  to  ])ass  in  ^ 
review,  as  rapidly  as  possible,  some  of  the  arguments,  or 
phrases  claiming  to  be  arguments,  which  have  been  em-  : 
ployed  to  vindicate  a system  full  of  absurdity  and  injustice.  ? 

The  constitution,  it  is  said,  is  essentially  Christian ; and 
therefore  to  admit  Jews  to  office  is  to  destroy  the  constitu-  | 
tion.  Nor  is  the  Jew  injured  by  being  excluded  from  polit- 
ical  power.  For  no  man  has  any  right  to  power.  A man  W 
has  a right  to  his  property ; a man  has  a right  to  be  pro-  f 
tected  from  personal  injury.  These  rights  the  law  allows  to  'f 
the  Jew;  and  with  these  rights  it  would  be  atrocious  to 
interfere.  But  it  is  mere  matter  of  favor  to  admit  any  man 
to  political  power ; and  no  man  can  justly  complain  that  ho 
is  shut  out  from  it. 

We  cannot  but  admire  the  ingenuity  of  this  contrivance  f. 
for  shifting  the  burden  of  the  proof  from  those  to  whom  it 
properly  belongs,  and  who  would,  we  suspect,  find  it  rather  " 
cumbersome.  Surely  no  Christian  can  deny  that  every 
human  being  has  a right  to  be  allowed  every  gratification 
which  produces  no  harm  to  others,  and  to  be  spared  every 
mortification  which  produces  no  good  to  others.  Is  it  not  a 
source  of  mortification  to  a class  of  men  that  they  are 
excluded  from  political  power?  If  it  be,  they  have,  on 
Christian  principles,  a right  to  be  freed  from  that  mortifica 
tion,  unless  it  can  be  shown  that  their  exclusion  is  necessary 
for  the  averting  of  some  greater  evil.  The  presumption  is 

• StcUement  of  the  Civil  Disabilities  and  Privations  ajfscting  Jews  in  England 
Svo.  Loudon:  1829. 


CIVIL  DISABILITIES  OB"  THE  JEWS. 


599 


evidently  in  favor  of  toleration.  It  is  for  the  prosecutor  to 
make  out  his  case. 

The  strange  argument  which  we  are  considering  would 
prove  too  much  even  for  those  who  advance  it.  If  no  man 
lias  a right  to  political  power,  then  neither  Jew  nor  Gentile 
. has  such  a right.  The  whole  foundation  of  government  is 
taken  away.  But  if  government  be  taken  away,  the  prop- 
erty and  the  persons  of  men  are  insecure ; and  it  is  acknowl 
edged  that  men  have  a right  to  their  property  and  to  per- 
sonal security.  If  it  be  right  that  the  property  of  men 
should  be  protected,  and  if  this  can  only  be  done  by  means 
of  government,  then  it  must  be  right  that  government 
should  exist.  Now  there  cannot  be  government  unless  some 
person  or  persons  possess  political  power.  Therefore  it  is 
right  that  some  person  of  persons  should  possess  political 
power.  That  is  to  say,  some  person  or  j:>ersons  must  have 
a right  to  political  power. 

It  is  because  men  are  not  in  the  habit  of  considering  what 
tlie  end  of  government  is,  that  Catholic  disabilities  and 
Jewish  disabilities  have  been  suffered  to  exist  so  long.  We 
hear  of  essentially  Protestant  governments  and  essentially 
Christian  governments,  words  which  mean  just  as  much  as 
essentially  Protestant  cookery,  or  essentially  Christian  horse- 
manship. Government  exists  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the 
j)eace,  for  the  purpose  of  compelling  us  to  settle  our  disputes 
l)y  arbitration  instead  of  settling  them  by  blows,  for  the 
purpose  of  compelling  us  to  supply  our  wants  by  industry 
instead  of  supplying  them  by  rapine.  This  is  the  only  oper- 
ation for  which  the  machinery  of  government  is  peculiarly 
adapted,  the  only  operation  which  wise  governments  ever 
propose  to  themselves  as  their  chief  object.  If  there  is  any 
class  of  people  who  are  not  interested,  or  who  do  not  think 
themselves  interested,  in  the  security  of  property  and  the 
maintenance  of  order,  that  class  ought  to  have  no  share  of 
the  powers  which  exist  for  the  purpose  of  securing  property 
and  maintaining  order.  But  Avhy  a man  should  be  less  fit  to 
exercise  those  powers  because  he  wears  a beard,  because  ho 
does  not  eat  ham,  because  he  goes  to  the  synagogue  on 
Saturdays  instead  of  going  to  the  church  on  Sundays,  we 
cannot  conceive. 

The  points  of  difference  between  Christianity  and  Jtidaism 
have  very  much  to  do  with  a man’s  fitness  to  be  a bishop  or 
a rabbi.  But  they  have  no  more  to  do  with  his  fitness  to  be 
a magistrate,  a legislator,  or  a minister  of  finance,  than  with 


600 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


his  fitness  to  be  a cobbler.  Nobody  has  ever  thought  of  j 
compelling  cobblers  to  make  any  declaration  on  the  true  ? 
faith  of  a Christian.  Any  man  would  rather  have  his  shoes  | 
mended  by  a heretical  cobbler  than  by  a person  who  had  \ 
subscribed  all  the  thirty-nine  articles,  but  had  never  handled  1 
an  awl.  Men  act  thus,  not  because  they  arc  indifferent  to  • ¥ 
religion,  but  because  they  do  not  see  what  religion  has  to  do  { 
with  the  mending  of  their  shoes.  Yet  religion  has  as  much  ; 
to  do  with  the  mending  of  shoes  as  with  the  budget  and  the  | 
army  estimates.  We  have  surely  had  several  signal  proofs  ^ 
within  the  last  twenty  years  that  a very  good  Christian  may  f 
be  a very  bad  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer. 

But  it  would  be  monstrous,  say  the  persecutors,  that 
Jews  should  legislate  for  a Christian  community.  This  is  a 
)>alpable  misrepresentation.  What  is  proposed  is,  not  that 
the  Jews  should  legislate  for  a Christian  community,  but 
that  a legislature  composed  of  Christians  and  Jews  should 
legislate  for  a community  composed  of  Christians  and  Jews. 

On  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  questions  out  of  a thousand, 
on  all  questions  of  police,  of  finance,  of  civil  and  criminal 
law,  of  foreign  policy,  the  Jew,  as  a Jew,  has  no  interest 
hostile  to  that  of  the  Christian,  or  even  to  that  of  the  Church- 
man. On  questions  relating  to  the  ecclesiastical  establish- 
ment, the  Jew  and  the  Churchman  may  differ.  But  they 
cannot  differ  more  widely  than  the  Catholic  and  the  Church- 
man, or  the  Independent  and  the  Churchman.  The  principle 
that  Churchmen  ought  to  monopolize  the  whole  power  of 
the  state  would  at  least  have  an  intelligible  meaning.  The 
principle  that  Christians  ought  to  monopolize  it  has  no  mean- 
ing at  all.  For  no  question  connected  with  the  ecclesiastical 
institutions  of  the  country  can  possibly  come  before  Parliar 
ment,  with  respect  to  which  there  will  not  be  as  wide  a dif- 
ference between  Christians  as  there  can  be  between  any 
Christian  and  any  Jew. 

In  fact,  the  Jews  are  not  now  excluded  from  political 
power.  They  possess  it ; and  as  long  as  they  are  allowed 
to  accumulate  large  fortunes,  they  must  possess  it.  The  dis- 
tinction which  is  sometimes  made  between  civil  privileges 
and  political  power  is  a distinction  without  a difference. 
Privileges  are  power.  Civil  and  political  are  synonymous 
words,  the  one  derived  from  the  Latin,  the  other  from  the 
Greek.  Nor  is  this  mere  verbal  quibbling.  If  we  look  for 
a moment  at  the  facts  of  the  case,  we  shall  see  that  the 
things  are  inseparable,  or  rather  identicah 


CIVIL  DISABILITIES  OF  THE  JEWS. 


601 


That  a Jew  should  be  a judge  in  a Christian  country 
would  be  most  shocking.  But  he  may  be  a juryman,  lie 
may  try  issues  of  fact ; and  no  harm  is  done.  But  if  he 
should  be  suffered  to  try  issues  of  law,  there  is  an  end  of  the 
constitution.  He  may  sit  in  a box  plainly  dressed,  and  re- 
turn verdicts.  But  that  he  should  sit  on  the  bench  in  a 
black  gown  and  white  wig,  and  grant  new  trials,  would  bo 
an  abomination  not  to  be  thought  of  among  baptized  people. 
The  distinction  is  certainly  most  philosophical. 

What  power  in  civilized  society  is  so  great  as  that  of  the 
creditor  over  the  debtor  ? If  we  take  this  away  from  the 
Jew,  we  take  away  from  him  the  security  of  his  property. 
If  we  leave  it  to  him,  we  leave  to  him  a power  more  despotic 
by  far  than  that  of  the  king  and  all  his  cabinet. 

It  would  be  impious  to  let  a Jew  sit  in  Parliament.  But 
a Jew  may  make  money ; and  money  may  make  members 
of  Parliament.  Grattan  and  Old  Sarum  may  be  the  property 
of  a Hebrew.  An  elector  of  Penryn  will  take  ten  pounds 
from  Shylock  rather  than  nine  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and 
eleven  pence  three  farthings  from  Antonio.  To  this  no 
objection  is  made.  That  a Jew  should  possess  the  substance 
of  legislative  ]Dowcr,  that  he  should  command  eight  votes  on 
every  division  as  if  he  were  the  great  Duke  of  Newcastle 
himself,  is  exactly  as  it  should  be.  But  that  he  should  pass 
the  bar  and  sit  down  on  those  mysterious  cushions  of  green 
leather,  that  he  should  cry  “ hear  ” and  ‘‘  order,”  and  talk 
about  being  on  his  legs,  and  being,  for  one,  free  to  say  this 
and  to  say  that,  would  be  a profanation  sufficient  to  bring 
ruin  on  the  country. 

That  a Jew  should  be  privy-councillor  to  a Christian 
king  would  be  an  eternal  disgrace  to  the  nation.  But  the 
Jew  may  govern  the  money-market,  and  the  money-market 
may  govern  the  world.  The  minister  may  be  in  doubt  as  to 
his  scheme  of  finance  till  ho  has  been  closeted  with  the  Jew. 
A congress  of  sovereigns  may  be  forced  to  summon  the  Jew 
to  their  assistance.  The  scrawl  of  the  Jew  on  the  back  of  a 
piece  of  paper  may  be  worth  more  than  the  royal  word  of 
three  kings,  or  the  national  faith  of  three  new  American  re- 
publics. But  that  he  should  put  Right  Honorable  before 
his  name  would  be  the  most  frightful  of  national  calamities. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  some  of  our  politicians  reasoned 
about  the  Irish  Catholics.  The  Catholics  ought  to  have  no 
political  power.  The  sun  of  England  is  set  for  ever  if  the 
Catholics  exercise  political  power,  Give  the  Catholics  every 


602 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


thing  else;  but  keep  ])oliticnl  j)ower  from  tliem.  These  wise  1 
men  did  not  sec  tliat,  wlien  every  tiling  else  had  been  given,  | 
jiolitical  power  had  been  given.  They  continued  to  rcjieat  ; 
their  cuckoo  song,  when  it  was  no  longer  a question  whether  ' 
Catholics  should  have  political  power  or  not,  when  a Catholic  J 
Association  bearded  the  Parliament,  when  a Catholic  agita-  i 
tor  exercised  infinitely  more  authority  than  the  Lord  Lieu-  ^ 
tenant.  j 

If  it  is  our  duty  as  Christians  to  exclude  the  Jews  from  | 
political  power,  it  must  be  our  duty  to  treat  them  as  our  y 
ancestors  treated  them,  to  murder  them,  and  banish  them,  • 
and  rob  them.  For  in  that  way,  and  in  that  way  alone,  can 
we  really  deprive  them  of  political  power.  If  we  do  not 
adopt  this  course,  we  may  take  away  the  shadow,  but  we 
must  leave  them  the  substance.  We  may  do  enough  to  pain 
and  irritate  them  ; but  wo  shall  not  do  enough  to  secure  our-  ■ 
selves  from  danger,  if  danger  really  exists.  Where  wealth 
is,  there  power  must  inevitably  be. 

The  English  Jews,  we  are  told,  are  not  Englishmen. 
They  are  a separate  people,  living  locally  in  this  island,  but 
living  morally  and  politically  in  communion  with  their 
brethren  who  are  scattered  over  all  the  world.  An  English 
Jew  looks  on  a Dutch  or  a Portuguese  Jew  as  his  country- 
man, and  on  an  English  Christian  as  a stranger.  This  Tvant 
of  patriotic  feeling,  it  is  said,  renders  a Jew  unfit  to  exer- 
cise political  functions. 

The  argument  has  in  it  something  plausible ; but  a close 
examination  shows  it  to  be  quite  unsound.  Even  if  the 
alleged  facts  are  admitted,  still  the  Jews  are  not  the  only 
people  who  have  preferred  their  sect  to  their  country.  The 
feeling  of  patriotism,  when  society  is  in  a healthful  state, 
springs  up,  by  a natural  and  inevitable  association,  in  the 
minds  of  citizens  who  know  that  they  owe  all  their  com- 
forts and  pleasures  to  the  bond  which  unites  them  in  one 
community.  But,  under  a partial  and  oppressive  govern- 
ment, these  associations  cannot  acquire  that  strength  which 
they  have  in  a better  state  of  things.  Men  are  compelled 
to  seek  from  their  party  that  protection  which  they  ought 
to  receive  from  their  country,  and  they,  by  a natural  con- 
sequence, transfer  to  their  party  that  affection  which  they 
would  otherwise  have  felt  for  their  country.  The  Hugue- 
nots of  France  called  in  the  help  of  England  against  their 
Catholic  kings.  The  Catholics  of  France  called  in  the  help 
of  Spain  against  a Huguenot  king.  Would  it  be  fair  to  in- 


CIVIL  DISABILITIES  OF  THE  JEWS. 


603 


fer,  that  at  present  the  French  Protestants  would  wish  to 
see  their  religion  made  dominant  by  the  help  of  a Prussian 
or  English  army  ? Surely  not.  And  why  is  it  that  they 
are  not  willing,  as  they  formerly  were  willing,  to  sacrifice 
the  interests  of  their  coun^»ry  to  the  interests  of  their  re- 
ligious persuasion  ? The  reason  is  obvious  : they  were  per- 
secuted then,  and  are  not  persecuted  now.  The  English 
Puritans,  under  Charles  the  First,  prevailed  on  the  Scotch 
to  invade  England.  Do  the  Protestant  Dissenters  of  our 
time  wish  to  see  the  Church  put  down  by  an  invasion  of 
foreign  Calvinists  ? If  not,  to  what  cause  are  we  to  at- 
tribute the  change?  Surely  to  this,  that  the  Protestant 
Dissenters  are  far  better  treated  now  than  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  Some  of  the  most  illustrious  public  men  that 
England  ever  produced  were  inclined  to  take  refuge  from 
the  tyranny  of  Laud  in  North  America.  Was  this  because 
Presbyterians  and  Independents  are  incapable  of  loving 
their  country?  But  it  is  idle  to  multiply  instances.  Noth- 
ing is  so  offensive  to  a man  who  knows  anything  of  history 
or  of  human  nature  as  to  hear  those  who  exercise  the 
powers  of  government  accuse  any  sect  of  foreign  attach- 
ments. If  there  be  any  proposition  universally  true  in  poli- 
tics it  is  this,  that  foreign  attachments  are  the  fruit  of  do- 
mestic misrule.  It  has  always  been  the  trick  of  bigots  to 
make  their  subjects  miserable  at  home,  and  then  to  com- 
plain that  they  look  for  relief  abroad ; to  divide  society, 
and  to  wonder  that  it  is  not  united ; to  govern  as  if  a sec- 
tion of  the  state  were  the  whole,  and  to  censure  the  other 
sections  of  the  state  for  their  want  of  patriotic  spirit.  If 
the  Jews  have  not  felt  towards  England  like  children,  it  is 
because  she  has  treated  them  like  a step-mother.  There  is 
no  feeling  which  more  certainly  develops  itself  in  the  minds 
of  men  living  under  tolerably  good  government  than  the 
feeling  of  patriotism.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  Avorld, 
there  never  was  any  nation,  or  any  large  portion  of  any  na- 
tion, not  cruelly  oppressed,  which  was  wholly  destitute  of 
that  feeling.  To  make  it  therefore  ground  of  accusation 
against  a class  of  men,  that  they  are  not  patriotic,  is  the 
most  vulgar  legerdemain  of  sophistry.  It  is  the  logic  which 
the  wolf  employs  against  the  lamb.  It  is  to  accuse  the 
mouth  of  the  stream  of  poisoning  the  source. 

If  the  English  Jews  really  felt  a deadly  hatred  to  Eng- 
land, if  the  weekly  prayer  of  their  synagogues  were  that  all 
the  curses  denounced  by  Ezekiel  on  Tyre  and  Egypt  might 


604 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


fall  on  London,  if,  in  tlieir  solemn  feasts,  they  called  down  9 
blessings  on  those  who  should  dash  our  children  to  pieces  'fl 
on  tlie  stones,  still,  we  say,  their  hatred  to  their  countrymen  « 
would  not  be  more  intense  than  that  which  sects  of  Chris-  M 
tians  have  often  borne  to  each  other.  But  in  fact  the  feel-  fl. 
ing  of  the  Jews  is  not  such.  It  is  precisely  Avhat,  in  the  9; 
situation  in  which  they  are  placed,  we  should  expect  it  to  m 
be.  They  are  treated  far  better  than  the  French  Protestants  ■■ 
were  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  or  tlian  our  ft 
Puritans  were  treated  in  the  time  of  Laud.  They,  there-  9! 
fore,  have  no  rancor  against  the  government  or  against  I 
their  countrymen.  It  will  not  be  denied  that  they  are  far  9 
better  affected  to  the  state  than  the  followers  of  Coligni  or  m 
Vane.  But  they  are  not  so  well  treated  as  the  dissenting  m 
sects  of  Christians  are  now  treated  in  England  ; and  on  this  ■ 
account,  and,  we  firmly  believe,  on  this  account  alone,  they  I 
have  a more  exclusive  spirit.  Till  we  have  carried  the  ex-  m 
periment  farther,  we  are  not  entitled  to  conclude  that  they  1 
cannot  be  made  Englishmen  altogether.  The  statesman  J 
who  treats  them  as  aliens,  and  then  abuses  them  for  not  en-  § 
tertaining  all  the  feelings  of  natives,  is  as  unreasonable  as  the  i 
tyrant  who  punished  their  fathers  for  not  making  bricks  J 
without  straw.  1 

Rulers  must  not  be  suffered  thus  to  absolve  themselves  f 
of  their  solemn  responsibility.  It  does  not  lie  in  their  j 
mouths  to  say  that  a sect  is  not  patriotic.  It  is  their  busi-  J 
ness  to  make  it  patriotic.  History  and  reason  clearly  in- 
iicate  the  means.  The  English  Jews  are,  as  far  as  we  can 
see,  precisely  what  our  government  has  made  them.  They  % 
are  precisely  w’hat  any  sect,  what  any  class  of  men,  treated  i 
as  they  have  been  treated,  would  have  been.  If  all  the  red-  t 
liaired  people  in  Europe  had,  during  centuries,  been  out-  ^ 
raged  and  oppressed,  banished  from  this  place,  imprisoned 
in  that,  deprived  of  their  money,  deprived  of  their  teeth, 
convicted  of  the  most  improbable  crimes  on  the  feeblest 
evidence,  dragged  at  horses’  tails,  hanged,  tortured,  burned 
alive,  if,  when  manners  became  milder,  they  had  still  been 
subject  to  debasing  restrictions  and  exposed  to  vulgar  in- 
sults, locked  up  in  particular  streets  in  some  countries, 
pelted  and  ducked  by  the  rabble  in  others,  excluded  every- 
where from  magistracies  and  honors,  what  would  be  the 
patriotism  of  gentlemen  with  red  hair  ? And  if,  under  such 
( ircumstances,  a proposition  were  made  for  admitting  red- 
haired  men  to  office,  how  striking  a speech  might  an  elo* 


CIVIL  DISABILITIES  OF  THE  JEWS. 


G05 


quent  admirer  of  our  old  institutions  deliver  against  so 
revolutionary  a measure ! “ These  men,”  he  miglit  say, 

“ scarcely  consider  themselves  as  Englishmen.  They  think 
a red-haired  Frenchman  or  a red-haired  German  more  closely 
connected  with  them  than  a man  with  brown  hair  born  in 
their  own  parish.  If  a foreign  sovereign  patronizes  red 
hair,  they  love  him  better  than  their  own  native  king.  They 
are  not  Englishmen : they  cannot  be  Englishmen  : nature 
has  forbidden  it:  experience  proves  it  to  be  impossible. 
Right  to  political  power  they  have  none  ; for  no  man  has  a 
right  to  political  power.  Let  them  enjoy  personal  security, 
let  their  property  be  under  the  protection  of  the  law.  But 
if  they  ask  for  leave  to  exercise  power  over  a community  of 
which  they  are  only  half  members,  a community  the  con- 
stitution of  which  is  essentially  dark-haired,  let  us  answer 
them  in  the  words  of  our  wise  ancestors,  Nolumus  leges 
Anglice  mutari. 

But,  it  is  said,  the  Scriptures  declare  that  the  Jew's  are 
to  be  restored  to  their  own  country ; and  the  whole  nation 
looks  forward  to  that  restoration.  They  are,  therefore,  not 
so  deeply  interested  as  others  in  the  prosperity  of  England. 
It  is  not  their  home,  but  merely  the  place  of  their  sojourn, 
the  house  of  their  bondage.  This  argument,  which  first  ap- 
peared in  the  Times  newspaper,  and  which  attracted  a 
degree  of  attention  proportioned  not  so  much  to  its  own 
intrinsic  force  as  to  the  general  talent  with  which  that  jour- 
nal is  conducted,  belongs  to  a class  of  sophism  by  which 
the  most  hateful  persecutions  may  easily  be  justified.  To 
charge  men  with  practical  consequences  which  they  them- 
selves deny  is  disingenuous  in  controversy ; it  is  atrocious 
in  government.  The  doctrine  of  predestination,  in  the 
opinion  of  many  people,  tends  to  make  those  who  hold  it 
utterly  immoral.  And  certainly  it  would  seem  that  a man 
who  believes  his  eternal  destiny  to  be  already  irrevocably 
fixed  is  likely  to  indulge  his  passions  without  restraint,  and 
to  neglect  his  religious  duties.  If  he  is  an  heir  of  wrath,  his 
exertions  must  be  unavailing.  If  he  is  preordained  to  life, 
they  must  be  superfluous.  But  would  it  be  wise  to  punish 
every  man  who  holds  the  higher  doctrines  of  Calvinism,  as 
if  he  had  actually  committed  all  those  crimes  which  we  know 
some  Antinomians  to  have  committed  ? Assuredly  not. 
The  fact  notoriously  is  that  there  are  many  Calvinists  as 
moral  in  their  conduct  as  any  Armiuian,  and  many  Ar- 
minians  as  loose  as  any  Calvinist, 


606 


Macaulay’s  miscellankous  whttings. 


It  is  altogether  impossible  to  reason  from  tlie  opinions 
which  a man  professes  to  his  feelings  and  his  actions  ; and 
in  fact  no  person  is  ever  such  a fool  as  to  reason  thus,  ex- 
cept when  he  wants  a pretext  for  persecuting  his  neighbors. 
A Christian  is  commanded,  under  the  strongest  sanctions, 
to  be  just  in  all  his  dealings.  Yet  to  how  many  of  the 
twenty-four  millions  of  professing  Christians  in  these  islands 
would  any  man  in  his  senses  lend  a thousand  pounds  with- 
out security?  A man  who  should  act,  for  one  day,  on  the 
supposition  that  all  the  people  about  him  were  influenced 
by  the  religion  which  they  professed,  would  find  himself 
ruined  before  night ; and  no  man  ever  does  act  on  that  sup- 
position in  any  of  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life,  in  borrow- 
ing, in  lending,  in  buying,  or  in  selling.  But  when  any  of 
our  fellow^-creatures  are  to  be  oppressed,  the  case  is  differ- 
ent. Then  we  represent  those  motives  which  v,^e  know  to 
be  so  feeble  for  good  as  omnipotent  for  evil.  Then  we  lay 
to  the  charge  of  our  victims  all  the  vices  and  follies  to  which 
their  doctrines,  however  remotely,  seem  to  tend.  W e forget 
that  the  same  weakness,  the  same  laxity,  the  same  dispo- 
sition to  prefer  the  present  to  the  future,  which  make  men 
wmrse  than  a good  religion,  make  them  better  than  a bad 
one. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  ancestors  reasoned,  and  that 
some  people  in  our  own  time  still  reason,  about  the  Catho- 
lics. A Papist  believes  himself  bound  to  obey  the  pope. 
The  pope  has  issued  a bull  deposing  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Therefore  every  Papist  wdll  treat  her  grace  as  an  usurper. 
Therefore  every  Papist  is  a traitor.  Therefore  every  Papist 
ought  to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.  To  this  logic 
we  owe  some  of  the  most  hateful  laws  that  ever  disgraced 
our  history.  Surely  the  answer  lies  on  the  surface.  The 
Church  of  Rome  may  have  commanded  these  men  to  treat 
the  queen  as  an  usurper.  But  she  has  commanded  them  to 
do  many  other  things  which  they  have  never  done.  She 
enjoins  her  priests  to  observe  strict  purity.  You  are  always 
taunting  them  with  their  licentiousness.  She  commands  all 
her  followers  to  fast  often,  to  be  charitable  to  the  poor,  to 
take  no  interest  for  money,  to  fight  no  duels,  to  see  no 
plays.  Do  they  obey  these  injunctions  ? If  it  be  the  fact 
that  very  few  of  them  strictly  observe  her  precepts,  w^hen 
her  precepts  are  o])posed  to  their  passions  and  interests, 
may  not  loyalty,  may  not  humanity,  may  not  the  love  of 
ease,  may  not  the  fear  of  death,  be  sufficient  to  prevent  them 


4 

i 

f. 


emii  DISABILITIES  OF  THE  JEWS. 


607 


from  executing  those  wicked  orders  which  she  has  issued 
against  Die  sovereign  of  England?  When  we  know  that 
many  of  these  j)0ople  do  not  care  enougli  for  their  religion 
to  go  without  beef  on  a Friday  for  it,  why  should  we  think 
that  they  will  run  the  risk  of  being  racked  and  hanged 
for  it? 

People  are  now  reasoning  about  the  Jews  as  our  fathers 
reasoned  about  the  Papists.  The  law  which  is  inscribed  on 
the  walls  of  the  synagogues  prohibits  covetousness.  But  if 
we  were  to  say  that  a Jew  mortgagee  would  not  foreclose 
because  God  had  commanded  him  not  to  covet  his  neigh- 
bor’s house,  everybody  would  think  us  out  of  our  wits.  Yet 
it  passes  for  an  argument  to  say  that  a Jew  will  take  no 
interest  in  the  prosperity  of  the  country  in  which  he  lives, 
that  he  will  not  care  how  bad  its  laws  and  policy  may  be, 
how  heavily  it  maybe  taxed,  how  often  it  may  be  conquered 
and  given  up  to  spoil,  because  God  has  promised  that,  by 
some  unknown  means,  and  at  some  undetermined  time,  per- 
ha])s  ten  thousand  years  hence,  the  Jews  shall  migrate  to 
Palestine.  Is  not  this  the  most  profound  ignorance  of 
human  nature  ? Do  we  not  know  that  what  is  remote  and 
indefinite  affects  men  far  less  than  what  is  near  and  certain  ? 
The  argument  too  applies  to  Christians  as  strongly  as  to 
Jews.  The  Christian  believes  as  well  as  the  Jew,  that  at 
some  future  period  the  present  order  of  things  will  come  to 
an  end.  Nay,  many  Christians  believe  that  the  Messiah 
will  shortly  establish  a kingdom  on  earth,  and  reign  visibly 
over  all  its  inhabitants.  Whether  this  doctrine  be  orthodox 
or  not  we  shall  not  here  inquire.  The  number  of  people  wlio 
hold  it  is  very  much  greater  than  the  number  of  Jews  resid- 
ing in  England.  Many  of  those  who  hold  it  are  distinguished 
by  rank,  Avealth,  and  ability.  It  is  preached  from  the  pul 
pits,  both  of  the  Scottish  and  of  the  English  church.  Noble- 
men  and  members  of  Parliament  have  written  in  defence  ot 
it.  Now  Avherein  does  this  doctrine  differ,  as  far  as  its 
political  tendency  is  concerned,  from  the  doctrine  of  the 
Jews?  If  a Jew  is  unfit  to  legislate  for  us  because  he  be- 
lieves that  he  or  his  remote  descendants  Avill  be  removed  to 
Palestine,  can  we  safely  open  the  House  of  Commons  to  a 
fifth-monarchy  man,  Avho  expects  that  before  this  genera- 
tion shall  pass  away,  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  will  be 
swallowed  up  in  one  divine  empire? 

Does  a J ew  engage  less  eagerly  than  a Christian  in  any 
competition  which  the  law  leaves  open  to  him  ? Is  he  less 


608 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WEITINOS. 


active  and  regular  in  his  business  tlian  liis  neighbors  ? Does 
he  furnisli  Iiis  house  neatly,  because  he  is  a pilgrim  and  so- 
journer in  the  land  ? Does  the  expectation  of  being  re- 
stored to  the  country  of  his  fathers  make  him  insensible  to 
the  fluctuations  of  the  stock-exchange?  Does  he,  in  ar- 
ranging his  [a-ivate  affairs,  ever  take  into  the  account  the 
chance  of  his  migrating  to  Palestine  ? If  not,  why  are  we 
to  suppose  that  feelings  Avhich  never  influence  his  dealings 
as  a merchant,  or  his  dispositions  as  a testator,  will  acquire 
a boundless  influence  over  him  as  soon  as  he  becomes  a 
magistrate  or  a legislator  ? 

There  is  another  argument  which  we  would  not  willingly 
treat  with  levity,  and  which  yet  we  scarcely  know  how  to 
treat  seriously.  Scripture,  it  is  said,  is  full  of  terrible  de- 
nunciations against  the  Jews.  It  is  foretold  that  they  are 
to  be  wanderers.  Is  it  then  right  to  give  them  a home?  It 
is  foretold  that  they  are  to  be  oppressed.  Can  we  with  pro- 
priety suffer  them  to  be  rulers?  To  admit  them  to  the 
rights  of  citizens  is  manifestly  to  insult  the  Divine  oracles. 

We  allow  that  to  falsify  a projjliecy  inspired  by  Divine 
Wisdom  would  be  a most  atrocious  crime.  It  is,  therefore, 
a happy  circumstance  for  our  frail  sj^ecms,  that  it  is  a crime 
which  no  man  can  possibly  commit.  11  we  admit  the  Jews 
to  seats  in  Parliament,  we  shall,  by  so  doing,  prove  that  the 
prophecies  in  question,  whatever  they  may  mean,  do  not 
mean  that  the  Jews  shall  be  excluded  from  Parliament. 

In  fact  it  is  already  clear  that  the  prophecies  do  not  bear 
the  meaning  put  upon  them  by  the  respectable  persons 
whom  we  are  now  answering.  In  France  and  in  the  United 
States  the  Jews  are  already  admitted  to  all  tlie  rights  of 
citizens.  A prophecy,  therefore,  which  should  mean  that 
the  Jews  W’ould  never  during  the  course  of  their  wander- 
ings, be  admitted  to  all  the  rights  of  citizens  in  the  places 
of  their  sojourn,  would  be  a false  prophecy.  This,  there 
fore,  is  not  the  meaning  of  the  prophecies  of  Scripture. 

But  we  protest  altogether  against  the  practice  of  con- 
founding prophecy  with  precept,  of  setting  up  predictions 
which  are  often  obscure  against  a morality  which  is  always 
clear.  If  actions  are  to  be  considered  as  just  and  good 
merely  because  they  have  been  predicted,  what  action  was 
ever  more  laudable  than  that  crime  which  our  bigots  are 
now,  at  the  end  of  eighteen  centuries,  urging  us  to  avenge 
on  the  Jews,  that  crime  which  made  the  earth  shake  and 
blotted  out  the  sun  from  heaven?  The  same  reasoning 


tJIVIL  DISABILITIES  OP  TUE  JEWS. 


609 


which  is  now  employed  to  vindicate  the  disabilities  imposed 
on  our  Hebrew  countrymen  will  equally  vindicate  the  kiss 
of  Judas  and  the  judgment  of  Pilate.  ‘‘The  Son  of  Man 
goeth,  as  it  is  \vritten  of  him ; but  woe  to  that  man  by 
whom  the  Son  of  man  is  betrayed.”  And  woe  to  those 
w ho  in  any  age  or  any  country,  disobey  liis  benevolent  com- 
mands under  pretence  of  accomplishing  his  predictions.  If 
this  argument  justifies  the  laws  now  existing  against  the 
Jews,  it  justifies  equally  all  the  cruelties  which  have  ever 
been  committed  against  them,  the  sweeping ' edicts  of  ban- 
ishment and  confiscation,  the  dungeon,  the  rack,  and  the 
slow  fire.  IIow  can  we  excuse  ourselves  for  leaving  pnop- 
erty  to  people  who  are  to  “ serve  their  enemies  in  hunger, 
and  in  thirst,  and  in  nakedness,  and  in  want  of  all  things  ; ” 
for  giving  protection  to  the  persons  of  those  Avho  are  to  “ fear 
day  and  night,  and  to  have  none  assurance  of  their  life ; ” 
for  not  seizing  on  the  children  of  a race  whose  “ sons  and 
daughters  are  to  be  given  unto  another  ])eople  ? ” 

We  have  not  so  learned  the  doctrines  of  Him  who  com- 
manded us  to  love  our  neighbor  as  ourselves,  and  who, 
when  he  was  called  upon  to  explain  what  He  meant  by  a 
neighbor,  selected  as  an  example  a heretic  and  an  alien. 
Last  year,  we  remember,  it  w^as  represented  by  a pious 
writer  in  the  John  Bull  newspaper,  and  by  some  other 
equally  fervid  Christians,  as  a monstrous  indecency,  that  the 
measure  for  the  relief  of  the  Jews  should  be  brought  for- 
ward in  Passion  w^eek.  One  of  these  humorists  ironically 
recommended  that  it  should  be  read  a second  time  on  Goo<] 
Friday.  We  should  have  had  no  objection  ; nor  do  wm  be- 
lieve that  the  day  could  be  commemorated  in  a more  worthy 
manner.  We  know  of  no  day  fitter  for  terminating  long 
hostilities,  and  repairing  cruel  wrongs,  than  the  day  on 
which  the  religion  of  mercy  was  founded.  We  know  of  no 
day  fitter  for  blotting  out  from  the  statute-book  the  last 
traces  of  intolerance  than  the  day  on  which  the  spirit  of  in- 
tolerance produced  the  foulest  of  all  judical  murders,  the 
day  on  which  the  list  of  the  victims  of  intolerance,  that 
noble  list  wherein  Socrates  and  More  are  enrolled,  wae 
glorified  by  a yet  greater  and  holier  name. 

VoL.  I.— 39 


GlO  Macaulay’s  aiiscellanlous  wiiiTiKttii 


MOORE’S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON.«^ 

{Edinburgh  Review,  June,  1831.) 

We  have  read  this  book  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Considered  merely  as  a composition,  it  deserves  to  l>e 
classed  among  the  best  specimens  of  English  prose  which 
our  age  has  produced.  It  contains,  indeed,  no  single  pass- 
age equal  to  two  or  three  which  we  could  select  from  the 
Life  of  Sheridan.  But,  as  a whole,  it  is  immeasurably  su- 
perior to  that  work.  The  style  is  agreeable,  clear,  and 
manly,  and  when  it  rises  into  eloquence,  rises  ivithout  effort 
or  ostentation.  Nor  is  the  matter  inferior  to  the  manner. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  name  a book  which  exhibits  more 
kindness,  fairness,  and  modesty.  It  has  evidently  been 
written,  not  for  the  purpose  of  showing,  what,  however,  it 
often  shows,  how  well  its  author  can  write,  but  for  the  pur- 
pose of  vindicating,  as  far  as  truth  will  permit,  the  mem- 
ory of  a celebrated  man  who  can  no  longer  vindicate  him- 
self. Mr.  Moore  never  thrusts  himself  between  Lord  Byron 
and  the  public.  With  the  strongest  temptations  to  egotism, 
he  has  said  no  more  about  himself  than  the  subject  abso- 
lutely required. 

A great  part,  indeed  the  greater  part,  of  these  volumes 
consists  of  extracts  from  the  Letters  and  Journals  of  Lord 
Byron ; and  it  is  difficult  to  speak  too  highly  of  the  skill 
which  has  been  shown  in  the  selection  and  arrangement. 
We  will  not  say  that  we  have  not  occasionally  remarked  in 
these  two  large  quartos  an  anecdote  which  should  have  been 
omitted,  a letter  which  should  have  been  suppressed,  a name 
which  should  have  been  concealed  by  asterisks,  or  asterisks 
which  do  not  answer  the. purpose  of  concealing  the  name. 
But  it  is  impossible,  on  a general  survey,  to  deny  that  the  task 
has  been  executed  with  great  judgment  and  great  humanity. 
When  we  consider  the  life  which  Lord  Byron  had  led,  his 
petulance,  his  irritability,  and  his  communicativeness,  we 
cannot  but  admire  the  dexterity  with  which  Mr.  Moore  has 
contrived  to  exhibit  so  much  of  the  character  and  opinions 
of  his  friend,  with  so  little  pain  to  the  feelings  of  the  living. 

♦ Letters  and  Journals  of  Lord  Byron ; ivith  Notices  of  his  Life.  By  TH0MA8 
MooKE,  Esq.  2 vols.  4to.  I.ontlon  : 1830. 


MOORE’S  life  of  LOBD  BYRON. 


611 


Tlie  extracts  from  the  journals  and  correspondence  of 
Lord  Byron  are  in  tlie  highest  degree  valuable,  not  merely 
on  account  of  the  information  which  they  contain  respecting 
the  distinguished  man  by  whom  they  were  written,  but  on 
account  also  of  their  rare  merit  as  compositions.  The  Let- 
ters, at  least  those  which  were  sent  from  Italy,  are  among 
tin  best  in  our  language.  They  are  less  affected  than  those 
of  Pope  and  Walpole  ; they  have  more  matter  in  them  than 
those  of  Cowper.  Knowing  that  many  of  them  were  not 
written  merely  for  the  person  to  wdiom  they  were  directed, 
but  were  general  epistles,  meant  to  be  read  by  a large  cir- 
cle, we  expected  to  find  them  clever  and  spirited,  but  defi- 
cient in  ease.  We  looked  with  vigilance  for  instances  of 
stiffness  in  the  lano:ua2:e  and  awkwardness  in  the  transitions. 
We  have  been  agreeably  disappointed ; and  we  must  con- 
fess that,  if  the  epistolary  style  of  Lord  Byron  was  artificial, 
it  was  a rare  and  admirable  instance  of  that  highest  art 
which  cannot  be  distinguished  from  nature. 

Of  the  deep  and  painful  interest  which  this  book  excites 
no  abstract  can  give  a just  notion.  So  sad  and  dark  a story 
is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  any  work  of  fiction  ; and  we  are 
little  disposed  to  envy  the  moralist  who  can  read  it  without 
being  softened. 

The  pretty  fable  by  which  the  Duchess  of  Orleans  illus- 
trated the  character  of  her  son  the  Regent  might,  with  little 
change,  be  applied  to  Byron.  All  the  fairies,  save  one,  had 
been  bidden  to  his  cradle.  All  the  gossips  had  been  pro- 
fuse of  their  gifts.  One  had  bestowed  nobility,  another 
genius,  a third  beauty.  The  malignant  elf  who  had  been 
uninvited  came  last,  and,  unable  to  reverse  what  her  sisters 
had  done  for  their  favorite,  had  mixed  up  a curse  with  every 
blessing.  In  the  rank  of  Lord  Byron,  in  his  understanding, 
in  his  character,  in  his  very  person,  there  was  a strange 
union  of  opposite  extremes.  He  was  born  to  all  that  men 
covet  and  admire.  But  in  every  one  of  those  eminent  ad- 
vantages which  he  possessed  over  others  was  mingled  some- 
thing of  misery  and  debasement.  He  was  sprung  from  a 
house,  ancient  indeed  and  noble,  but  degraded  and  impov- 
erished by  a series  of  crimes  and  follies  which  had  attained 
a scandalous  puolicity.  The  kinsman  whom  he  succeeded 
had  died  poor,  and,  but  for  merciful  judges,  would  have 
died  u])on  the  gallows.  The  young  peer  had  great  intellec- 
tual powers ; yet  there  was  an  unsound  part  in  bis  mind. 
He  had  naturally  a generous  and  feeling  heart ; but  his  tern- 


012 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  'svritingb. 


per  was  wayward  and  irritable.  He  had  a head  which  statu- 
aries loved  to  copy,  and  a foot  the  deformity  of  which  the 
beggars  in  the  streets  mimicked.  Distinguished  at  once  by 
the  strength  and  by  the  weakness  of  his  intellect,  affection- 
ate yet  perverse,  a poor  lord,  and  a handsome  cripple,  he 
required,  if  ever  man  required,  the  firmest  and  the  most 
judicious  training.  But,  capriciously  as  nature  had  dealt 
with  him,  the  parent  to  whom  the  office  of  forming  his  char- 
acter was  intrusted  was  more  capricious  still.  She  passed 
from  paroxysms  of  rage  to  paroxysms  of  tenderness.  At 
one  time  she  stifled  him  with  her  caresses : at  another  time 
she  insulted  his  deformity.  He  came  into  the  world;  and 
the  world  treated  him  as  his  mother  had  treated  him. 
sometimes  with  fondness,  sometimes  with  cruelty,  never  with 
justice.  It  indulged  him  without  discrimination,  and  pun- 
ished him  without  discrimination.  He  was  truly  a spoiled 
child,  not  merely  the  spoiled  child  of  his  parent,  but  the 
spoiled  child  of  nature,  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  the 
spoiled  child  of  fame,  the  spoiled  child  of  society.  His 
first  poems  were  received  with  a contempt  which,  feeble 
as  they  were,  they  did  not  absolutely  deserve.  The  poem 
which  he  published  on  his  return  from  his  travels  was, 
on  the  other  hand,  extolled  far  above  its  merit.  At  twenty- 
four  he  found  himself  on  the  highest  pinnacle  of  literary 
fame,  with  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Southey,  and  a crowd  of 
other  distinguished  writers  beneath  his  feet.  There  is 
scarcely  an  instance  in  history  of  so  sudden  a rise  to  so 
dizzy  an  eminence. 

Every  thing  that  could  stimulate,  and  every  thing  that 
could  gratify  the  strongest  propensities  of  our  nature,  the 
gaze  of  a hundred  drawing-rooms,  the  acclamations  of  the 
whole  nation,  the  applause  of  applauded  men,  the  love  of 
lovely  women,  all  this  world  and  the  glory  of  it  were  at 
once  offered  to  a youth  to  whom  nature  had  given  violent 
passions,  and  to  whom  education  had  never  taught  to  con- 
trol them.  He  lived  as  many  men  live  who  have  no  similar 
excuse  to  plead  for  their  faults.  But  his  countrymen  and 
his  (‘-ountrywomen  would  love  him  an.d  admire  him.  They 
were  resolved  to  see  in  his  excesses  only  the  flash  and  out- 
break of  that  same  fiery  mind  which  glowed  in  his  poetry. 
He  attacked  religion  ; yet  in  religious  circles  his  name  was 
mentioned  with  fondness,  and  in  many  religious  publications 
his  works  were  censured  with  singular  tenderness.  He  lam- 
pooned the  Prince  Regent ; yet  he  could  not  alienate  the 


Moore’s  life  of  lord  ryron. 


61S 


Tories.  Everytliing,  it  seemed,  was  to  be  forgiven  to  youth, 
rank,  and  genius. 

Then  came  the  reaction.  Society,  capricious  in  its  in- 
dignation as  it  had  been  capricious  in  its  fondness,  flew  into 
a rage  with  its  forward  and  petted  darling.  He  had  been 
worshipped  with  an  irrational  idolatry.  He  was  persecuted 
with  an  irrational  fury.  Much  has  been  written  about  those 
unliappy  domestic  occurrences  which  decided  the  fate  of  hk 
life,  Yet  nothing  is,  nothing  ever  was,  positively  known 
to  tlie  public,  but  this,  that  he  quarrelled  with  his  lady,  and 
that  she  refused  to  live  with  him.  There  have  been  hints 
in  abundance,  and  shrugs  and  shakings  of  the  head,  and 
“Well,  well,  we  know,”  and  “We  could  an  if  we  would,” 
and  “ If  we  list  to  speak,”  and  “ There  be  tliat  might  an 
they  list.”  But  we  are  not  aware  that  there  is  before  the 
world  substantiated  by  credible,  or  even  by  tangible  evi- 
dence, a single  fact  indicating  that  Lord  Byron  Avas  mort 
to  blame  than  any  other  man  who  is  on  bad  terms  with  his 
Avife.  The  professional  men  whom  Lady  Byron  consulted 
Avere  undoubtedly  of  opinion  that  she  ought  not  to  live  with 
her  husband.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  they  formed 
that  opinion  without  hearing  both  sides.  We  do  not  say, 
Ave  do  not  mean  to  insinuate,  that  Lady  Byron  was  in  any 
respect  to  blame.  We  think  that  those  who  condemn  her 
on  the  evidence  which  is  now  before  the  public  are  as  rash  as 
those  Avho  condemn  her  husband.  We  will  not  pronounce 
any  judgment,  Ave  cannot,  even  in  our  own  minds,  form  any 
judgment,  on  a transaction  Avhich  is  so  imperfectly  known 
to  us.  It  would  have  been  well  if,  at  the  time  of  the  sepa- 
ration, all  those  Avho  knew  as  little  about  the  matter  then  as 
Ave  know  about  it  now  had  shown  the  forbearance  which, 
under  such  circumstances,  is  but  common  justice. 

We  knoAV  no  spectacle  so  ridiculous  as  the  British  pub- 
lic in  one  of  its  periodical  fits  of  morality.  In  general, 
elopements,  divorces,  and  family  quarrels,  pass  with  little 
notice.  W e read  the  scandal,  talk  about  it  for  a day,  and  for- 
get it.  But  once  in  six  or  seven  years  our  virtue  becomes 
outrageous.  We  cannot  suffer  the  laws  of  religion  and  de- 
cency to  be  violated.  We  must  make  a stand  against  vice. 
We  must  teach  libertines  that  the  English  people  appre- 
ciate the  importance  of  domestic  ties.  Accordingly  some 
unfortunate  man,  in  no  respect  more  depraved  than  hun- 
dreds Avhose  offences  have  been  treated  Avith  lenity,  is  sin- 
gled out  as  an  expiatory  sacrifice.  1:1  he  has  children^  thej 


614  Macaulay’s  mtsckllaneous  writings. 

are  to  be  taken  from  him.  If  he  has  a profession,  he  is  to 
be  di  iven  from  it.  lie  is  cut  by  the  liigher  orders,  and 
Iiissed  by  tlie  lower.  He  is,  in  truth,  a sort  of  whi])ping- 
boy,  by  whose  vicarious  agonies  all  tlie  other  transgressors 
of  the  same  class  are,  it  is  supposed,  sufficiently  chastised. 
We  reflect  very  complacently  on  our  own  severity,  and 
compare  with  great  pride  the  high  standard  of  morals  es- 
tablished in  England  with  the  Parisian  laxity.  At  lengtli 
our  anger  is  satiated.  Our  victim  is  ruined  and  broken* 
hearted.  And  our  virtue  goes  quietly  to  sleep  for  seven 
years  more. 

It  is  clear  that  those  vices  which  destroy  domestic  hap- 
piness ought  to  be  as  much  as  possible  repressed.  It  is 
equally  clear  that  they  cannot  be  repressed  by  penal  legis- 
lation. It  is  therefore  right  and  desirable  that  public  opin- 
ion should  be  directed  against  them.  But  it  should  be  di- 
rected against  them  uniformly,  steadily  and  temperately, 
not  by  sudden  fits  and  starts.  There  should  be  one  weight 
and  one  measure.  Decimation  is  always  an  objectionable 
mode  of  punishment.  It  is  the  resource  of  judges  too  indo- 
lent and  hasty  to  investigate  facts  and  to  discriminate  nicely 
between  shades  of  guilt.  It  is  an  irrational  practice,  even 
when  adopted  by  military  tribunals.  When  adopted  by  the 
tribunal  of  public  opinion,  it  is  infinitely  more  irrational.  It 
is  good  that  a certain  portion  of  disgrace  should  constantly 
attend  on  certain  bad  actions.  But  it  is  not  good  that  the 
offenders  should  merely  have  to  stand  the  risks  of  a lottery  of 
infamy,  that  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  should  escape, 
and  that  the  hundredth,  perhaps  the  most  innocent  of  the 
hundred,  should  j^ay  for  all.  We  remember  to  have  seen  a 
mob  assembled  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  to  hoot  a gentleman  against 
whom  the  most  oppressive  proceeding  known  to  the  Eng- 
lish law  was  then  in  progress.  He  was  hooted  because  h.e 
had  been  an  unfaithful  husband,  as  if  some  of  the  most  pop- 
ular men  of  the  age.  Lord  Nelson  for  example,  had  not  been 
unfai  thful  husbands.  We  remember  a still  stronger  case. 
Will  posterity  believe  that,  in  an  age  in  which  men  whose 
gallantries  were  universally  known,  and  had  been  legally 
proved,  filled  some  of  the  highest  offices  in  the  state  and  in 
the  army,  presided  at  the  meetings  of  religious  and  benevo 
lent  institutions,  were  the  delight  of  every  society,  and  the 
favorites  of  the  multitude,  a crowd  of  moralists  went  to  the 
theatre,  in  order  to  pelt,  a poor  actor  for  disturbing  the  con- 
jugal  felicity  of  an  alderman?  What  there  was  in  the  cir- 


MOORE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON". 


615 


ourastances  either  of  the  offender  or  of  the  sufferer  to  vindi- 
cate tlie  zeal  of  the  audience,  we  could  never  conceive. 
It  has  never  been  supposed  that  the  situation  of  an  actor 
Is  peculiarly  favorable  to  the  rigid  virtues,  or  that  an  aider- 
man  enjoys  any  special  immunity  from  injuries  such  as  that 
which  on  this  occasion  roused  the  anger  of  the  public.  But 
such  is  the  justice  of  mankind. 

In  these  cases  the  punishment  was  excessive ; but  the 
offence  was  known  and  proved.  The  case  of  Lord  Byron 
was  harder.  True  Jed  wood  justice  was  dealt  out  to  him. 
First  came  the  execution,  then  the  investigation,  and  last  of 
all,  or  rather  not  at  all,  the  accusation.  The  public,  with- 
out knowing  anything  whatever  about  the  transactions  in 
his  family,  Sew  into  a violent  passion  with  him,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  invent  stories  which  might  justify  its  anger.  Ten 
or  twenty  different  accounts  of  the  separation,  inconsistent 
with  each  other,  with  themselves,  and  with  common  sense, 
circulated  at  the  same  time.  What  evidence  there  might 
be  for  any  one  of  these,  the  virtuous  people  who  repeated 
them  neither  knew  nor  cared.  For  in  fact  these  stories 
were  not  the  causes,  but  the  effects  of  the  public  indigna- 
tion. They  resembled  those  loathsome  slanders  which 
Lewis  Goldsmith,  and  other  abject  libellers  of  the  same 
class,  w^ere  in  the  habit  of  publishing  about  Bonaparte  ; 
such  as  that  he  poisoned  a girl  with  arsenic  when  he  was  at 
the  military  school,  that  he  hired  a grenadier  to  shoot  Des- 
saix  at  Marengo,  that  he  filled  St.  Cloud  with  all  the  pollu- 
tions of  Caprea3.  There  was  a time  when  anecdotes  like 
these  obtained  some  credence  from  persons  who,  hating  the 
French  emperor  without  knowing  why,  were  eager  to  be- 
lieve any  thing  which  might  justify  their  hatred.  Lord 
Byron  fared  in  the  same  way.  His  countrymen  were  in  a 
bad  humor  with  him.  His  writings  and  his  character  had 
lost  the  charm  of  novelty.  He  had  been  guilty  of  the 
offence  which,  of  all  offences,  is  punished  most  severely ; 
he  had  been  over-praised  ; he  had  excited  too  warm  an 
interest ; and  the  public,  with  its  usual  justice,  chastised 
him  for  its  own  folly.  The  attachments  of  the  multitude 
bear  no  small  resemblance  to  those  of  the  Avanton  enchant- 
ress in  the  Arabian  Tales,  who,  when  the  forty  days  of  her 
fondness  were  over,  was  not  content  Avith  dismissing  her 
lovers,  but  condemned  them  to  expiate,  in  loathsome  shapes 
and  under  cruel  penances,  the  crime  of  having  once  pleased 
her  too  well. 


Macaulay’s  miscellan^eous  writings. 


ol6 


Tlie  obloquy  which  Byron  had  to  endure  was  such  as 
might  well  have  shaken  a more  constant  mind.  , The  news- 
papers were  filled  with  lampoons.  The  theatres  shook  with 
execrations.  lie  was  excluded  from  circles  where  he  had 
lately  been  the  observed  of  all  observers.  All  those  creep- 
ing things  that  riot  in  the  decay  of  nobler  natures  hastened 
to  their  repast ; and  they  were  right ; they  did  after  their 
kind.  It  is  not  every  day  that  the  savage  envy  of  aspiring 
dunces  is  gratified  by  the  agonies  of  such  a spirit,  an  1 the 
degradation  of  such  a name. 

The  unhappy  man  left  his  country  for  ever.  The  howl 
of  contumely  followed  him  across  the  sea,  up  the  Rhine, 
over  the  Alps;  it  gradually  waxed  fainter;  it  died  away; 
those  who  had  raised  it  began  to  ask  each  other,  what, 
after  all,  was  the  matter  about  which  they  had  been  so 
clamorous,  and  wished  to  invite  back  the  criminal  whom 
they  had  just  chased  from  them.  His  poetry  became  more 
popular  than  it  had  ever  been  ; and  his  complaints  were 
read  with  tears  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  who  had 
never  seen  his  face. 

He  had  fixed  his  home  on  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic,  in 
the  most  picturesque  and  interesting  of  cities,  beneath  the 
brightest  of  skies  and  by  the  brightest  of  seas.  Censorious- 
ness was  not  the  vice  of  the  neighbors  whom  he  had  chosen. 
They  were  a race  corrupted  by  a bad  government  and  a 
bad  religion,  long  renowned  for  skill  in  the  arts  of  volup- 
tuousness, and  tolerant  of  all  the  caprices  of  sensuality. 
From  the  public  opinion  of  the  country  of  his  adoption,  he 
had  nothing  to  dread.  With  the  public  opinion  of  the 
country  of  his  birth  he  was  at  open  war.  He  plunged  into 
wild  and  desperate  excesses,  ennobled  by  no  generous  or 
tender  sentiment.  From  his  Venetian  harem  he  sent  foith 
volume  after  volume,  full  of  eloquence,  of  wit,  of  pathos, 
of  ribaldry,  and  of  bitter  disdain.  His  health  sank  under 
the  effects  of  his  intemperance.  His  hair  turned  gray.  His 
food  ceased  to  nourish  him.  A hectic  fever  withered  him 
up.  It  seemed  that  his  body  and  mind  were  about  to  perish 
together. 

From  this  wretched  degradation  he  was  in  some  measure 
rescued  by  a connection,  culpable  indeed,  yet  such  as,  if  it 
were  judged  by  the  standard  o^  morality  established  in  the 
country  where  he  lived,  might  be  called  virtuous.  But  an 
imagination  polluted  by  vice,  a temper  embittered  by  misfor- 
tune, and  a frame  habituated  to  the  fatal  excitement  of  in- 


■i 

s 


k 

.1 


Moore’s  life  op  lord  byron. 


617 


toxication,  prevented  him  from  fully  enjoying  the  happi- 
ness which  he  might  have  derived  from  the  purest  and  most 
tranquil  of  his  many  attachments.  Midnight  draughts  of 
ardent  spirits  and  Rhenish  wines  had  begun  to  work  the 
ruin  of  his  fine  intellect.  His  verse  lost  much  of  the  energy 
and  condensation  which  had  distinguished  it.  But  he 
would  not  resign,  without  a struggle,  the  empire  which  he 
had  exercised  over  the  men  of  his  generation.  A new 
dream  of  ambition  arose  before  him ; to  be  the  chief  of  a 
literary  party;  to  be  the  great  mover  of  an  intellectual  rev- 
olution ; to  guide  the  public  mind  of  England  from  his  Ital- 
ian retreat,  as  Voltaire  had  guided  the  public  mind  of 
France  from  the  villa  of  Ferney.  With  this  hope,  as  it 
should  seem,  he  established  the  Liberal.  But,  powerfully 
as  he  had  affected  the  imaginations  of  his  contemporaries, 
he  mistook  his  own  powers  if  he  hoped  to  direct  their  opin- 
ions ; and  he  still  more  grossly  mistook  his  own  disposition, 
if  he  thought  that  he  could  long  act  in  concert  with  other 
men  of  letters.  The  plan  failed,  and  failed  ignominiously. 
Angry  with  himself,  angry  with  his  coadjutors,  he  relin- 
quished it,  and  turned  to  another  project,  the  last  and 
noblest  of  bis  life. 

A nation,  once  the  first  among  the  nations,  preeminent  in 
knowledge,  preeminent  in  military  glory,  the  cradle  of  phi- 
losophy, of  eloquence,  and  of  the  fine  arts,  had  been  for  ages 
bowed  down  under  a cruel  yoke.  All  the  vices  which  op- 
pression generates,  the  abject  vices  wLich  it  generates  in 
those  who  submit  to  it,  the  ferocious  vices  which  it  generates 
in  those  who  struggle  against  it,  had  deformed  the  charac- 
ter of  that  miserable  race.  The  valor  which  had  won  the 
great  battle  of  human  civilization,  which  had  saved  Europe, 
which  had  subjugated  Asia,  lingered  only  among  pirates 
and  robbers.  The  ingenuity,  once  so  conspicuously  dis- 
played in  every  department  of  physical  and  moral  science, 
had  been  depraved  into  a timid  and  servile  cunning.  On  a 
sudden  this  degraded  people  had  risen  on  their  oppressors. 
Discountenanced  or  betrayed  by  the  surrounding  potentates, 
they  had  found  in  themselves  something  of  that  which 
might  well  supply  the  place  of  all  foreign  assistance,  some- 
thing of  the  energy  of  their  fathers. 

As  a man  of  letters.  Lord  Byron  could  not  but  be  inter- 
ested in  the  event  of  this  contest.  His  political  opinions, 
though,  like  all  his  opinions,  unsettled,  leaned  strongly 
towards  the  side  of  liberty.  He  had  assisted  the  Italian 


618 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  AVIUTINGS. 


insurgents  witli  Iiis  purse,  niul  if  their  struggle  against  the 
Austrian  government  had  been  prolonged,  would  probably 
have  assisted  them  with  liis  sword.  But  to  Greece  he  was 
attached  by  peculiar  tics.  lie  liad  when  young  resided  in 
that  country.  Much  of  his  most  splendid  and  poj  ular 
poetry  liad  been  inspired  by  its  scenery  and  by  its  history. 
Sick  of  inaction,  degraded  in  his  own  eyes  by  his  pi  ivato 
vices  and  by  his  literary  failures,  pining  for  untried  excite- 
ment and  honorable  distinction,  he  carried  his  exhausted 
body  and  his  wounded  spirit  to  the  Grecian  camp. 

llis  conduct  in  his  new  situation  showed  so  much  vigor 
and  good  sense  as  to  justify  us  in  believing  that,  if  his  life 
had  been  prolonged,  he  might  have  distinguished  himself  as 
a soldier  and  a politician.  But  pleasure  and  sorrow  had 
done  the  work  of  seventy  years  upon  his  delicate  frame. 
The  hand  of  death  was  upon  him ; he  knew  it ; and  the 
only  wish  which  he  uttered  was  that  he  might  die  sword 
in  hand. 

This  was  denied  to  him.  Anxiety,  exertion,  exposure,  and 
those  fatal  stimulants  which  had  become  indispensable  to 
him,  soon  stretched  him  on  a sick  bed,  in  a strange  land, 
amidst  strange  faces,  without  one  human  being  that  he 
loved  near  him.  There,  at  thirty-six,  the  most  celebrated 
Englishman  of  the  nineteenth  century  closed  his  brilliant 
and  miserable  career. 

We  cannot  even  now  retrace  those  events  without  feel- 
ing something  of  Avhat  was  felt  by  the  nation,  when  it  was 
first  known  that  the  grave  had  closed  over  so  much  sorrow 
and  so  much  glory ; something  of  what  was  felt  by  those 
who  saw  the  hearse,  with  its  long  train  of  coaches,  turn 
slowly  northward,  leaving  behind  it  that  cemetery  which  had 
been  consecrated  by  the  dust  of  so  many  great  poets,  but  of 
which  the  doors  were  closed  against  all  that  remained  of 
Byron.  We  well  remember  on  that  day,  rigid  moralists 
could  not  refrain  from  weeping  for  one  so  young,  so  illustri- 
ous, so  imhajDpy,  gifted  with  such  rare  gifts,  and  tried  by 
such  strong  temptations.  It  is  unnecessary  to  make  any  re- 
flections. The  history  carries  its  moral  with  it.  Our  age 
has  indeed  been  fruitful  of  warnings  to  the  eminent,  and  of 
consolations  to  the  obscure.  Two  men  have  died  within 
our  recollection,  who,  at  a time  of  life  at  wdiich  many  peo- 
ple have  hardly  completed  their  education,  had  raised  them- 
selves, each  in  his  own  department,  to  the  height  of  glory. 
One  of  them  died  at  Longwood  ; the  other  at  MissolonghL 


Moore’s  life  op  lord  byroh. 


619 


It  ifl  always  difficult  to  separate  the  literary  character  of 
a man  who  lives  in  our  own  time  from  his  personal  cliarac- 
ter.  It  is  peculiarly  difficult  to  make  this  separation  in  the 
case  of  Lord  Byron.  For  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say, 
that  Lord  Byron  never  wrote  without  some  reference,  di- 
rect or  indirect,  to  liimself.  The  interest  excited  by  the 
events  of  his  life  mingles  itself  in  our  minds,  and  probably 
in  the  minds  of  almost  all  our  readers,  with  the  interest 
which  properly  belongs  to  his  works.  A generation  must 
pass  away  before  it  will  be  possible  to  form  a fair  judgment 
of  his  books,  considered  merely  as  books.  At  present  they 
are  not  merely  books,  but  relics.  We  will,  however,  ven- 
ture, though  with  unfeigned  diffidence,  to  offer  some  desul- 
tory remarks  on  his  poetry. 

His  lot  was  cast  in  the  time  of  a great  literary  revolu- 
tion. That  poetical  dynasty  which  had  dethroned  the 
successors  of  Shakspeare  and  Spenser  was,  in  its  turn, 
dethroned  by  a race  who  represented  themselves  as  heirs  of 
the  ancient  line,  so  long  dispossessed  by  usurpers.  The 
real  nature  of  this  revolution  has  not,  we  think,  been  com- 
prehended by  the  great  majority  of  those  who  concurred 
in  it. 

Wherein  especially  does  the  poetry  of  our  times  differ 
from  that  of  the  last  century?  Ninety-nine  persons  out  of 
a hundred  would  answer  that  the  poetry  of  the  last  century 
was  correct,  but  cold  and  mechanical,  and  that  the  poetry  of 
our  time,  though  wild  and  irregular,  presented  far  more 
vivid  images,  and  excited  the  passions  far  more  strongly 
than  that  of  Parnell,  of  Addisen,  or  of  Pope.  In  the  same 
manner  we  constantly  hear  it  said,  that  the  poets  of  the  age 
of  Elizabeth  had  far  more  genius,  but  far  less  correctness 
tlian  those  of  the  age  of  Anne.  It  seems  to  be  taken  for 
granted,  that  there  is  some  incompatibility,  some  antithesis 
between  correctness  and  creative  power.  We  rather  sus- 
|;ect  that  this  notion  arises  merely  from  an  abuse  of  words, 
and  that  it  has  been  the  parent  of  many  of  the  fallacies 
^vhich  perplex  the  science  of  criticism. 

What  is  meant  by  correctness  in  poetry  ? If  by  correct- 
ness be  meant  the  conforming  to  rules  which  have  their 
foundation  in  truth  and  in  the  principles  of  human  nature, 
then  correctness  is  only  another  name  for  excellence.  If 
by  correctness  be  meant  the  conforming  to  rules  purely 
arbitrary,  correctness  may  be  another  name  for  dulness  and 
absurdity. 


620 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


A writer  who  describes  visible  objects  falsely  and  vio- 
lates the  propriety  of  character,  a writer  wlio  makes  tlie 
mountains  ‘‘  nod  their  drow  ly  heads  ” at  night,  or  a dying 
man  take  leave  of  the  world  with  a rant  like  that  of  Maxi- 
min,  may  be  said  in  the  high  and  just  sense  of  the  phrase,  to 
write  incorrectly.  He  violates  the  first  great  law  of  his  art. 
His  imitation  is  altogether  unlike  the  thing  imitated.  The 
four  poets  who  are  most  eminently  free  from  incorrectness 
of  this  description  are  Homer,  Dante,  Shakspeare,  and  Mil- 
ton.  They  are,  therefore,  in  one  sense,  and  that  the  best 
tense,  the  most  correct  of  poets. 

When  it  is  said  that  Virgil,  though  he  had  less  genius 
than  Homer,  was  a more  correct  writer,  what  sense  is 
attached  to  the  word  correctness?  Is  it  meant  that  the 
story  of  the  ^neid  is  developed  more  skilfully  than  that  of 
the  Odyssey  ? that  the  Roman  describes  the  face  of  the  exter- 
nal world,  or  the  emotions  of  the  mind,  more  accurately 
than  the  Greek  ? that  the  characters  of  Achates  and  Mnes- 
theus  are  more  nicely  discriminated,  and  more  consistently 
supported,  than  those  of  Achilles,  of  Nestor,  and  of  Ulysses  ? 
The  fact  incontestably  is  that,  for  every  violation  of  the 
fundamental  laws  of  poetry  which  can  be  found  in  Homer, 
it  would  be  easy  to  find  twenty  in  Virgil. 

Troilus  and  Cressida  is  perhaps  of  all  the  plays  of  Shak- 
speare tha»t  which  is  commonly  considered  as  the  most 
incorrect.  Yet  it  seems  to  us  infinitely  more  correct,  in 
the  sound  sense  of  the  term,  than  what  are  called  the  most 
correct  plays  of  the  most  correct  dramatists.  Compare  it, 
for  example,  with  the  Tphigenie  of  Racine.  We  are  sure 
that  the  Greeks  of  Shakspeare  bear  a far  greater  resemblance 
than  the  Greeks  of  Racine  to  the  real  Greeks  who  besieged 
Troy ; and  for  this  reason,  that  the  Greeks  of  Shakspeare 
are  human  beings,  and  the  Greeks  of  Racine  mere  names, 
mere  words  printed  in  capitals  at  the  head  of  paragraphs  of 
declamation.  Racine,  it  is  true,  would  have  shuddered  at 
the  thought  of  making  a warrior  at  the  siege  of  Troy  quote 
Aristotle,  But  of  what  use  is  it  to  avoid  a single  anachron- 
ism, when  the  whole  play  is  one  anachronism,  the  senti- 
ments and  phrases  of  Versailles  in  the  camp  of  Aulis? 

In  the  sense  in  which  we  are  now  using  the  word 
correctness,  we  think  that  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Mr.  Words- 
worth, Mr.  Coleridge,  are  far  more  correct  poets  than  those 
who  are  commonly  extolled  as  the  models  of  correctness, 
Pope,  for  example,  and  Addison.  The  single  description  of 


Moore's  life  of  lord  byron’. 


62] 


a moonlight  niglit  in  Pope’s  Iliad  contains  more  inaccura- 
cies than  can  be  found  in  all  the  Excursion.  There  is  not  a 
single  scene  in  Cato,  in  which  all  that  conduces  to  poetical 
iilusion,  all  the  propriety  of  character,  of  language,  of  situ- 
ation, is  not  more  grossly  violated  than  in  any  part  of  the 
Lay  of  the  last  Minstrel.  No  man  can  possibly  think  that 
the  Romans  of  Addison  resemble  the  real  Romans  so  closely 
as  the  moss-troopers  of  Scott  resemble  the  real  moss-troop- 
ers. Wat  Tinliim  and  William  of  Deloraine  are  not,  it  is 
true,  persons  of  so  much  dignity  as  Cato.  But  the  dignity 
of  the  persons  represented  has  as  little  to  do  with  the 
correctness  of  poetry  as  with  the  correctness  of  painting. 
We  prefer  a gypsy  by  Reynolds  to  his  Majesty’s  head  on  a 
sign-post,  and  a Borderer  by  Scott  to  a Senator  by  Addison. 

In  what  sense,  then,  is  the  word  correctness  used  by 
those  who  say,  with  the  author  of  the  Pursuits  of  Literature, 
that  Pope  was  the  most  correct  of  English  Poets,  and  that 
next  to  Pope  came  the  late  Mr.  Gifford?  What  is  the 
nature  and  value  of  that  correctness,  the  praise  of  which  is 
denied  to  Macbeth,  to  Lear,  and  to  Othello,  and  given  to 
Hoole’s  translations  and  to  all  the  Seatonian  prize-poems  ? 
We  can  discover  no  eternal  rule,  no  rule  founded  in  reason 
and  in  the  nature  of  things,  which  Shakspeare  does  not 
observe  much  more  strictly  than  Pope.  But  if  by  correct- 
ness be  meant  the  conforming  to  a narrow  legislation  w hich, 
while  lenient  to  the  mala  in  se^  multiplies,  without  the 
shadow  of  a reason,  the  mala  proliihita^  if  by  correctness 
be  meant  a strict  attention  to  certain  ceremonious  observ- 
ances, which  are  no  more  essential  to  poetry  than  etiquette 
to  good  government,  or  than  the  washings  of  a Pharisee  to 
devotion,  then,  assuredly.  Pope  may  be  a more  correct  poet 
than  Shakspeare;  and,  if  the  code  were  a little  altered. 
Colley  Cibber  might  bo  a more  correct  poet  than  Pope. 
But  it  may  well  be  doubted  wdiether  this  kind  of  correctness 
be  a merit,  nay,  whether  it  be  not  an  absolute  fault. 

It  would  be  amusing  to  make  a digest  of  the  irrational 
law^s  which  bad  critics  have  framed  for  the  government  of 
poets.  First  in  celebrity  and  in  absurdity  stand  the  dra- 
matic unities  of  place  and  time.  No  human  being  has  ever 
been  able  to  find  any  thing  that  could,  even  by  courtesy,  bo 
called  an  argument  for  these  unities,  except  that  they  have 
been  deduced  from  the  general  practice  of  the  Greeks.  It 
requires  no  very  profound  examination  to  discover  that  the 
Greek  dramas,  often  admirable  as  compositions,  are,  as 


&22  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

exliibitions  of  liuman  cliaractor  aiul  Immaii  life,  far  inferior 
to  the  Englisli  ])laysof  the  age  of  Elizjibeth.  Every  scliolar 
knows  that  the  dramatic  part  of  tlie  Atlieniaii  tragedies  was 
at  first  subordinate  to  the  lyrical  part.  It  would,  therefore, 
have  been  little  less  than  a miracle  if  the  laws  of  the  Athe- 
nian stage  had  been  found  to  suit  plays  in  which  there  was 
no  chorus.  All  the  greatest  masterpieces  of  the  dramatic 
art  have  been  composed  in  the  direct  violation  of  the  unities, 
and  could  never  have  been  composed  if  the  unities  had  not 
been  violated.  It  is  clear,  for  example,  that  such  a charac- 
ter as  tliat  of  Hamlet  could  never  have  been  developed 
within  the  limits  to  which  Alfieri  confined  himself.  Yet 
such  was  the  reverence  of  literary  men  during  the  last  cen- 
tury for  these  unities  that  Johnson,  who,  much  to  his 
honor,  took  the  opposite  side,  was,  as  he  says,  “ frightened 
at  his  own  temerity,”  and  “ afraid  to  stand  against  the 
authorities  which  might  be  produced  against  him.” 

There  are  other  rules  of  the  same  kind  without  end. 
“ Shakspeare,”  says  Rymer,  “ ought  not  to  have  made  Othello 
black ; for  the  hero  of  a tragedy  ought  always  to  be  white.” 
“ Milton,”  says  another  critic,  “ ought  not  to  have  taken 
Adam  for  his  hero ; for  the  hero  of  an  epic  poem  ought 
always  to  be  victorious.”  “ Milton,”  says  another,  “ ought 
not  to  have  put  so  many  similes  into  his  first  book ; for  the 
first  book  of  an  e|3ic  poem  ought  always  to  be  the  most  un- 
adorned. There  are  no  similes  in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad.” 
“ Milton,”  says  another,  “ ought  not  to  have  placed  in  an 
epic  poem  such  lines  as  these  : — 

“ ‘ While  thus  I called,  and  strayed  I knew  not  whither.*  ** 

And  why  not  ? The  critic  is  ready  with  a reason,  a lady’s 
reason.  “ Such  lines,”  says  he,  “ are  not,  it  must  be  allowed, 
unpleasing  to  the  ear ; but  the  redundant  syllable  ought  to 
be  confined  to  the  drama,  and  not  admitted  into  epic  poetry.” 
As  to  the  redundant  syllable  in  heroic  rhyme  on  serious  sub- 
jects, it  has  been,  from  the  time  of  Pope  downward,  pro- 
scribed by  the  general  consent  of  all  the  correct  school.  No 
magazine  would  have  admitted  so  incorrect  a couplet  as  that 
of  Drayton : 

“ As  when  we  lived  untouch’d  with  these  disgraces, 

When  as  our  kingdom  was  our  dear  embraces.*’ 

Another  law  of  heroic  rhyme,  which,  fifty  years  ago,  was  con- 
sidered as  fundamental,  was,  that  there  should  be  a pause,  a 
comma  at  least,  at  the  end  of  every  couplet.  It  Avas  also 


MOORE’s  life  op  loro  BYRON. 


623 


provided  that  there  should  never  be  a full  stop  except  at  the 
end  of  a line.  Well  do  we  rein  ember  to  have  heard  a most 
correct  judge  of  poetry  revile  Mr.  Rogers  for  the  incorrect- 
ness of  that  most  sweet  and  graceful  passage, 

“ Such  grief  was  ours, — it  seems  but  yesterday,— 

When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 

*Twas  tliine,  Maria,  thine  without  a sigh 
At  midnight  in  a sister’s  arms  to  die. 

Oh  thou  wert  lovely ; lovely  was  thy  frame. 

And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  heaven  it  came; 

And  when  recalled  to  join  the  blest  above 
Thou  diedst  a victim  to  exceeding  love. 

Nursing  the  young  to  health.  In  happier  hours, 

When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers. 

Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  badst  me  write  on  thee; 

And  now  I write  what  thou  shalt  never  see.** 

Sir  Roger  Newdigato  is  fairly  entitled,  Ave  think,  to  be 
ranked  among  the  great  critics  of  this  school.  He  made  a 
laAV  that  none  of  the  poems  Avritten  for  the  prize  which  he 
established  at  Oxford  should  exceed  fifty  lines.  This  law 
seems  to  us  to  have  at  least  as  much  foundation  in  reason 
as  any  of  tliose  wliich  we  have  mentioned  ; nay,  much  more, 
for  the  world,  avc  believe,  is  pretty  Avell  agreed  in  thinking 
that  the  shorter  a prize  poem  is,  the  better. 

Wo  do  not  see  Avhy  Ave  should  not  make  a few  more  rules 
of  the  same  kind  ; why  avc  should  not  enact  that  the  number 
of  scenes  in  every  act  shall  be  three  or  some  multiple  of 
three,  that  the  number  of  lines  in  every  scene  shall  be  an 
exact  square,  that  the  dramatis personce  shall  never  be  more 
or  foAver  than  sixteen,  and  that,  in  heroic  rhymes,  every 
thirty-sixth  line  shall  have  twelv^e  syllables.  If  we  were  to 
lay  down  these  canons,  and  to  call  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and 
Addison  incorrect  writers  for  not  haAung  complied  with  our 
whims,  we  should  act  precisely  as  those  critics  act  who  find 
incorrectness  in  the  magnificent  imagery  and  the  A^aried 
music  of  Coleridge  and  Shelley. 

The  correctness  which  the  last  century  prized  so  much 
resembles  the  correctness  of  those  pictures  of  the  garden  of 
Eden  Avhich  we  see  in  old  Bibles.  We  have  an  exact  square, 
enclosed  by  the  rivers  Pison,  Gihon,  Hiddekel,  and  Euphrates, 
each  with  a convenient  bridge  in  the  centre,  rectangular 
beds  of  flowers,  a long  canal,  neatly  bricked  and  railed  in, 
the  tree  of  knowledge,  clipped  like  one  of  the  limes  behind 
the  Tuileries,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  grand  alley,  the 
snake  twined  round  it,  the  man  on  the  right  hand,  the 
woman  on  the  left,  and  the  beasts  drawn  up  in  an  exact 


Macaulay’s  miscellanp:ous  wiutings. 


V 

/ 


circle  round  them.  In  one  sense  the  picture  is  correct 
enough.  Thiit  is  to  say,  tlie  squares  are  correct;  the  circles 
are  correct ; the  man  and  the  woman  are  ii<  a most  correct 
line  with  the  tree ; and  the  snake  forms  a most  correct  s/>iraL 

But  if  there  were  a painter  so  gifted  that  he  could  place  | 
on  the  canvas  that  glorious  paradise,  seen  by  the  interior  eye  | 
of  him  whose  outward  sight  had  failed  with  long  W’atching  J 
and  laboring  for  liberty  and  truth,  if  there  were  a ])ainter  ^ 
who  could  set  before  us  the  mazes  of  the  sap[>hir3  bro<jk,  y 

the  lake  with  its  fringe  of  myrtles,  the  flowery  meadr  ^ 

the  grottoes  overhung  by  vines,  the  forests  shining  with  i- 
Hesperian  fruit  and  with  the  plumage  of  gorgeous  birds,  the 
massy  shade  of  that  nuptial  bower  which  showered  down  ^ 
roses  on  the  sleeping  lovers,  what  should  we  think  of  a corv 
noisseur  who  should  tell  us  that  this  painting,  though  finer 
than  the  absurd  picture  in  the  old  Bible,  was  not  so  correct? 
Surely  we  should  answ^er.  It  is  both  finer  and  more  correct ; 
and  it  is  finer  because  it  is  more  correct.  It  is  not  made  up 
of  correctly  drawn  diagrams ; but  it  is  a correct  painting, 
a worthy  representation  of  that  which  it  is  intended  to 
represent. 

It  is  not  in  the  fine  arts  alone  that  this  false  correctness 
is  prized  by  narrow-minded  men,  by  men  who  cannot  dis- 
tinguish means  from  ends,  or  what  is  accidental  from  what 
is  essential.  M.  Jourdain  admired  correctness  in  fencing. 

“ You  had  no  business  to  hit  me  then.  You  must  never 
thrust  in  quart  till  you  have  thrust  in  tierce.”  M.  Tonies 
liked  correctness  in  medical  practice.  ‘‘I  stand  up  for 
Artemius.  That  he  killed  his  patient  is  plain  enough.  But 
still  he  acted  quite  according  to  rule.  A man  dead  is  a man 
dead  ; and  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter.  But  if  rules  are 
to  be  broken,  there  is  no  saying  w^hat  consequences  may  fob 
low.”  We  have  heard  of  an  old  German  officer,  who  was  a 
great  admirer  of  correctness  in  military  operations.  He 
used  to  revile  Bonaparte  for  spoiling  the  science  of  war, 
which  had  been  carried  to  such  exquisite  perfection  by 
Marshal  Daun.  “ In  my  youth  we  used  to  march  and 
counter-march  all  the  summer  without  gaining  or  losing  a 
square  league^  and  then  we  went  into  winter-quarters.  And 
now  comes  an  ignorant,  hot-headed  young-man,  who  flies 
about  from  Bologne  to  IJlm,  and  from  tJlm  to  the  middle  of 
Moravia,  and  fights  battles  in  December.  The  whole  system 
of  his  tactics  is  monstrously  incorrect.”  The  world  is  of 
opinion j in  spite  of  eritks  like  thesei  that  the  end  of  fencing 


Moore’s  life  of  lorp  byron. 


625 


is  to  hit,  that  the  end  of  medicine  is  to  cure,  that  the  end  of 
^ar  is  to  conquer,  and  that  those  means  are  the  most  correct 
VYhich  best  accomplish  the  ends. 

And  has  poetry  no  end,  no  eternal  and  immutable  prin- 
ciples ? Is  poetry  like  heraldry,  mere  matter  of  arbitrary 
regulation  ? The  heralds  tell  us  that  certain  scutcheons  and 
>>earings  denote  certain  conditions,  and  that  to  put  colors  on 
colors,  or  metals  on  metals,*  is  false  blazonry.  If  all  this  were 
T iversed,  if  e^  ery  coat  of  arms  in  Europe  were  new  fashioned, 
it  It  were  decreed  that  or  should  never  be  placed  but  on  argent, 
or  argent  but  on  or,  that  illegitimacy  should  be  denoted  by 
a lozenge,  and  widowhood  by  a bend,  the  nev/  science  would 
l)e  just  as  good  as  the  old  science,  because  both  the  new  and 
old  would  be  good  for  notliing.  The  mummery  of  Port- 
cullis and  Pouge  Dragon,  as  it  has  no  other  value  than  that 
which  caprice  has  assigned  to  it,  may  well  submit  to  any 
laws  which  caprice  may  impose  u})on  it.  But  it  is  not  so  with 
that  great  imitative  art,  to  the  power  of  which  all  ages,  the 
rudest  and  the  most  enlightened,  bear  witness.  Since  its 
first  great  masterpieces  were  produced,  every  thing  that 
is  changeable  in  this  world  has  been  changed.  Civilization 
has  been  gained,  lost,  gained  again.  Religions,  the  lan- 
guages, and  forms  of  government,  and  usages  of  private  life, 
and  modes  of  thinking,  all  have  undergone  a succession  of 
revolutions.  Every  thing  has  passed  away  but  the  great 
features  of  nature,  and  the  heart  of  man,  and  the  miracles 
of  that  art  which  it  is  the  office  to  reflect  back  the  heart  of 
man  an  ! the  features  of  nature.  Those  two  strange  old 
poems,  the  w^onderof  ninety  generations,  still  retain  all  their 
freshness.  They  still  command  the  veneration  of  minds 
enriched  by  the  literature  of  many  nations  and  ages.  They 
are  still,  even  in  wwetched  translations,  the  delight  of  school- 
boys. Having  survived  ten  thousand  capricious  fashions, 
having  seen  successive  codes  of  criticism  become  obsolete, 
they  still  remain  to  us,  immortal  wdth  the  immortality  of 
truth,  the  same  when  persued  in  the  study  of  an  English 
scholar,  as  when  they  were  first  chanted  at  the  banquets  of 
the  Ionian  princes. 

Poetry  is,  as  was  said  more  than  t^vo  thousand  years  ago, 
imitation.  It  is  an  art  analogous  in  many  respects  to  the 
art  of  painting,  sculpture,  and  acting.  The  imitations  of  the 
painter,  the  sculptor,  and  the  actor,  are  indeed,  within  cer- 
tain limits,  more  perfect  than  those  of  the  poet.  The 
machinery  which  the  poet  employs  consists  merely  of  words, 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  words  cnnnot,  even  when  employed  hy  such  an  artist  aa 
ITorner  or  Dante,  present  to  the  mind  images  of  visible 
objects  quite  so  lively  and  exact  as  those  which  we  carry 
away  from  looking  on  the  works  of  the  brush  and  the  chisel. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  range  of  poetry  is  infinitely 
wider  than  that  of  any  other  imitative  art,  or  than  that 
of  all  the  other  imitative  arts  together.  The  sculptor 
can  imitate  only  form ; the  painter  only  form  and  color  ; 
the  actor,  until  the  poet  supplies  him  with  words,  only  form, 
color  and  motion.  Poetry  holds  the  outer  world  in  com- 
mon with  the  other  arts.  The  heart  of  man  is  the  province 
of  poetry,  and  of  poetry  alone.  The  ])ainter,  the  sculptor, 
and  the  actor  can  exhibit  no  more  of  human  passion  and 
character  than  that  small  portion  which  overflows  into  the 
gesture  and  the  face,  always  an  imperfect,  often  a deceitful 
sign  of  that  which  is  within.  The  deeper  and  more  com- 
plex parts  of  human  nature  can  be  exhibited  by  means  of 
words  alone.  Thus  the  objects  of  the  imitation  of  poetry 
are  the  whole  external  and  the  whole  internal  universe,  the 
face  of  nature,  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  man  as  he  is  in 
himself,  man  as  he  appears  in  society,  all  things  which  really 
exist,  all  things  of  which  we  can  form  an  image  in  our  minds 
by  combining  together  parts  of  things  which  really  exist. 
The  domain  of  this  imperial  art  is  commensurate  with  the 
imaginative  faculty. 

An  art  essentially  imitative  ought  not  surely  to  be  sub- 
jected to  rules  Avhich  tend  to  make  its  imitations  less  per- 
fect than  they  otherwise  would  be ; and  those  who  obey 
such  rules  ought  to  be  called,  not  correct,  but  incorrect 
artists.  The  true  way  to  judge  of  the  rules  by  which  Eng- 
lish poetry  was  governed  during  the  last  century  is  to  look 
at  the  effects  which  they  produced. 

It  was  in  1780  that  Johnson  completed  his  Lives  of  the 
Poets.  He  tells  us  in  that  work  that,  since  the  time  of 
Dryden,  English  poetry  had  shown  no  tendency  to  rela])so 
into  its  original  savageness,  that  its  language  had  been 
refined,  its  numbers  tuned,  and  its  sentiments  improved.  It 
may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  the  nation  had  any  great 
reason  to  exult  in  the  refinements  and  improvements  which 
gave  it  Douglas  for  Othello,  and  the  Triumphs  of  Temper 
for  the  Fairy  Queen. 

It  was  during  the  thirty  years  which  preceded  the 
appearance  of  Johnson’s  Lives  that  the  diction  and  versifi- 
cation of  English  poetry  weri,  in  the  sense  in  which  the 


A 

i 


i 

'i. 


I 


MOORE'S  LIFE  OF  LOUD  BYRON. 


627 


word  is  commonly  used,  most  correct.  Those  thirty  years 
are,  as  respects  poetry,  tlie  most  deplorable  part  of  our 
literary  history.  They  have  indeed  bequeathed  to  us 
scarcely  any  poetry  which  deserves  to  be  remembered.  Two 
or  three  hundred  lines  of  Gray,  twice  as  many  of  Goldsmitli, 
a few  stanzas  of  Beattie  and  Collins,  a few  strophes  of 
Mason,  and  a few  clever  prologues  and  satires,  were  the 
masterpieces  of  this  age  of  consummate  excellence.  The}' 
may  all  be  printed  in  one  volume,  and  that  volume  would 
be  by  no  means  a volume  of  extraordinary  merit.  It  would 
contain  no  poetry  of  the  very  highest  class,  and  little  which 
could  be  placed  very  high  in  the  second  class.  The  Para- 
dise Regained  or  Comus  would  outweigh  it  all. 

At  last,  when  poetry  had  fallen  into  such  utter  decay 
that  Mr.  Hayley  was  thought  a great  poet,  it  began  to 
appear  that  the  excess  of  the  evil  was  about  to  work  the 
cure.  Men  became  tired  of  an  insipid  conformity  to  a 
standard  which  derived  no  authority  from  nature  or  reason. 
A shallow  criticism  had  taught  them  to  ascribe  a superstitious 
value  to  the  spurious  correctness  of  poetasters.  A deeper 
criticism  brought  them  back  to  the  true  correctness  of  the 
first  great  masters.  The  eternal  laws  of  poetry  regained 
their  power,  and  the  temporary  fashions  which  had  super- 
seded those  laws  went  after  the  wig  of  Lovelace  and  the 
hoop  of  Clarissa. 

It  was  in  a cold  and  barren  season  that  the  seeds  of  that 
rich  harvest  which  we  have  reaped  were  first  sown.  While 
poetry  was  every  year  becoming  more  feeble  and  more 
mechanical,  while  the  monotonous  versification  which  Popo 
had  introduced,  no  longer  redeemed  by  his  brilliant  wit  and 
his  compactness  of  expression,  palled  on  the  ear  of  the  23ub- 
lic,  the  great  works  of  the  old  masters  w^ere  every  day 
attracting  more  and  more  of  the  admiration  which  they 
deserved.  The  plays  of  Shakspeare  were  better  acted, 
better  edited,  and  better  known  than  they  had  ever  been. 
Our  fine  ancient  ballads  were  again  read  with  pjleasure,  and 
it  bec^ame  a fashion  to  imitate  them.  Many  of  the  imitations 
were  altogether  contemptible.  But  they  shov/ed  that  men 
had  at  least  begun  to  admire  the  excellence  which  they  could 
not  rival.  A literary  revolution  was  evidently  at  hand.  There 
was  a feinient  in  the  minds  of  men,  a vague  craving  for 
something  new,  a disposition  to  hail  with  delight  any  thing 
whicli  might  at  first  sight  wear  the  appearance  of  originality. 
A reforming  age  is  always  fertile  to  impostors.  The  same 


028 


MACAULAY'S  MIBCKLLAXKOUS  WlllilAviS. 


excited  state  of  public  feeling  which  produced  the  great  1 
separation  from  the  see  of  Rome  produced  also  the  excesses  1 
of  the  Anabaptists.  The  same  stir  in  the  public  mind  of  * 
Europe  which  overthrew  tlie  abuses  of  the  old  French  gov-  J 
ernment,  produced  the  Jacobins  and  Theophilanthropists*  T 
Maepherson  and  Della  Crusca  were  to  be  true  reformers  of  | 
English  poetry  what  Knipperdoling  was  to  Luther,  or  I 
(Jlootz  to  Turgot.  The  success  of  Chatterton’s  forgeries  and  I 
of  the  far  more  contemptible  forgeries  of  Ireland  showed  i 
that  people  had  begun  to  love  the  old  poetry  well,  though  | 
not  wisely.  The  public  were  never  more  disposed  to  be-  : 
lieve  stories  without  evidence,  and  to  admire  books  without  - 
merit.  Any  thing  which  could  break  the  dull  monotony  of  • 
the  correct  school  was  acceptable.  J 

The  forerunner  of  the  great  restoration  of  our  literature 
was  Cowper.  His  literary  career  began  and  ended  at  nearly 
the  same  time  with  that  of  Alfieri.  A comparison  between 
Alfieri  and  Cowper  may,  at  first  sight,  appear  as  strange  as 
that  which  a loyal  Presbyterian  minister  is  said  to  have 
made  in  1745  between  George  the  Second  and  Enoch.  It 
may  seem  that  the  gentle,  shy,  melancholy  Calvinist,  whose 
spirit  had  been  broken  by  fagging  at  school,  who  had  not 
courage  to  earn  a livelihood  by  reading  the  titles  of  bills  in 
the  House  of  Lords,  and  whose  favorite  associates  were  a 
blind  old  lady  and  an  evangelical  divine,  could  have  nothing 
in  common  with  the  haughty,  ardent,  and  voluptuous  noble- 
man, the  horse-jockey,  the  libertine,  who  fought  Lord  Lig- 
onier  in  Hyde  Park,  and  robbed  the  Pretender  of  his  queen. 
But  though  the  private  lives  of  these  remarkable  men  pre- 
sent scarcely  any  points  of  resemblance,  their  literary  lives 
bear  a close  analogy  to  each  other.  They  both  found  poetry 
in  its  lowest  state  of  degradation,  feeble,  artificial,  and  alto- 
gether nerveless.  They  both  possessed  precisely  the  talents 
which  fitted  them  for  the  task  of  raising  it  from  that  deep 
abasement.  They  cannot,  in  strictness,  be  called  great 
poets.  They  had  not  in  any  very  high  degree  the  creative 
power, 


but  they  had  great  vigor  of  thought,  great  warmth  of  feeling, 
and  what,  in  their  circumstances,  was  above  all  things  im- 
portant, a manliness  of  taste  which  approached  to  rough- 
ness. They  did  not  deal  in  mechanical  versification  and 
conventional  phrases.  They  wrote  eoncerning  things  the 
thought  of  which  set  their  hearts  on  fire ; and  thus  what 


“The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine;” 


1 


Moore’s  lire  or  loro  byron^. 


629 


they  wrote,  even  avIicii  it  av anted  every  other  grace,  had 
tliat  inimitable  grace  Avhich  sincerity  and  strong  passion  im- 
part to  the  rudest  and  most  homely  compositions.  Each 
of  them  sought  for  inspiration  in  a noble  and  effecting 
subject,  fertile  of  images  which  had  not  yet  been  hackneyed. 
Liberty  was  the  muse  of  Alfieri,  Religion  was  the  muse  of 
Cowper.  The  same  truth  is  found  in  their  lighter  pieces. 
They  were  not  among  those  Avho  deprecated  the  severity, 
or  deplored  the  absence  of  an  unreal  mistress  in  melodious 
commonplaces.  Instead  of  raving  about  imaginary  Chloes 
and  Sylvias,  CoAvper  Avrote  of  Mrs.  UnAvin’s  knitting-needles. 
The  only  love-verses  of  Alfieri  Avere  addressed  to  one  whom 
he  truly  and  passionately  loved.  “ Tutte  le  rime  amorose 
che  seguono,”  says  he,  ‘‘  tutte  sono  per  essa,  e ben  sue,  e di 
lei  solamente ; poich6  mai  d’  altra  donna  J3er  certo  non  can- 
tero.” 

These  great  men  were  not  free  from  affectation.  But 
their  affectation  was  directly  opposed  to  the  affectation 
w^hich  generally  ])revailed.  Each  of  them  expressed,  in 
strong  and  bitter  language,  the  contempt  which  he  felt  for 
the  effeminate  poetasters  Avho  Avere  in  fashion  both  in  Eng- 
land and  in  Italy.  Cowper  complains  that 

Manner  is  all  in  all,  whate’er  is  writ, 

The  substitute  for  genius,  taste,  and  Avit.** 

He  praised  Pope  ; yet  he  regretted  that  Pope  had 

“ Made  poetry  a mere  mechanic  art, 

And  every  warbler  had  his  tune  by  heart. 

Alfieri  speaks  with  similar  scorn  of  the  tragedies  of  his  pre. 
decessors.  “Mi  cadevano  dalle  mani  per  la  languidezza, 
trivialita  e prolissita  del  modi  e del  verso,  senza  parlare  poi 
della  snervatezza  dei  pensieri.  Or  perche  mai  questa  nostra 
divina  lingua,  si  maschia  anco,  ed  energica,  e feroce,  m 
bocca  di  Dante,  dovra,  ella  farsi  cosi  sbiadata  ed  eunuca  nel 
dialogo  tragico?” 

To  men  thus  sick  of  the  languid  manner  of  their  con- 
temporaries ruggedness  seemed  a venial  fault,  or  rather  a 
positive  merit.  In  their  hatred  of  meretricious  ornament, 
and  of  what  Cowper  calls  “ creamy  smoothness,”  they  erred 
on  the  opposite  side.  Their  style  was  too  austere,  their 
versification  too  harsh.  It  is  not  easy,  however,  to  overrate 
the  service  which  they  rendered  to  literature.  The  intrinsic 
value  of  their  poems  is  considerable.  But  the  example 
which  they  set  of  mutiny  against  an  absurd  system  was 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


invaluable.  Tlic  });n*t  wliich  they  performed  was  rather  that 
of  Moses  tliaii  that  of  Joslnia.  They  oj)ened  the  house  of 
l)on(lage  ; but  they  did  not  enter  tlie  promised  land. 

During  the  twenty  years  which  followed  the  death 
(.V)wper,  the  revolution  in  English  ])oetry  was  fully  consum- 
mated. None  of  the  writers  of  this  ])eriod,  not  even  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  contributed  so  much  to  the  consummation  as 
T.ord  Byron.  Yet  Lord  Byron  contributed  to  it  unwillingly, 
and  with  constant  self-reproacli  and  shame.  All  his  tasles 
and  inclinations  led  him  to  take  part  with  the  school  of 
j)oetry  which  was  going  out  against  the  school  which  was 
coming  in.  Of  Pope  himself  he  spoke  with  extravagant 
admiration.  lie  did  not  venture  directly  to  say  that  the 
little  man  of  Twickenham  was  a greater  poet  than  Shak- 
speare  or  Milton ; but  lie  hinted  pretty  clearly  that  he 
thought  so.  Of  his  contemporaries,  scarcely  any  had  so 
much  of  his  admiration  as  Mr.  Gifford,  who,  considered  as  a 
poet,  was  merely  Pope,  without  Pope’s  wit  and  fancy,  and 
whose  satires  are  decidedly  inferior  in  vigor  and  poignancy 
to  the  very  imperfect  juvenile  performance  of  Lord  Byron 
himself.  lie  now  and  then  praised  Mr.  Wadsworth  and 
Mr.  Coleridge,  but  ungraciously  and  without  cordiality. 
When  he  attacked  them,  he  brought  his  whole  soul  to  the 
work.  Of  the  most  elaborate  of  Mr.  Wordsworth’s  poems 
lie  could  find  nothing  to  say,  but  that  it  was  “clumsy,  and 
frowsy,  and  his  aversion.”  Peter  Bell  excited  his  spleen  to 
such  a degree  that  he  evoked  the  shades  of  Pope  and  Dry- 
den,  and  demanded  of  them  whether  it  were  possible  that 
such  trash  could  evade  contempt  ? In  his  heart  he  thought 
his  own  Pilgrimage  of  Harold  inferior  to  his  Imitation  of 
Horace’s  Art  of  Poetry,  a feeble  echo  of  Pope  and  John- 
6311.  This  insipid  performance  he  repeatedly  designed  to 
publish,  and  was  withheld  only  by  the  solicitations  of  his 
friends.  He  has  distinctly  declared  his  approbation  of  the 
unities,  the  most  absurd  laws  by  which  genius  was  ever  held 
in  scTvitudc.  In  one  of  his  works,  we  think  in  his  letter  to 
Mr.  Bowles,  lie  compares  the  poetry  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury to  the  Parthenon,  and  that  of  the  nineteenth  to  a 
Turkish  mosque,  and  boasts  that,  although  he  had  assisted 
his  contemporaries  in  building  their  grotesque  and  barbar- 
ous edifice,  he  had  never  joined  them  in  defacing  the 
remains  of  a chaster  and  more  graceful  architecture.  In 
another  letter  he  compares  the  change  v hich  had  recently 
passed  on  English  poeti  y to  the  decay  of  Latin  poetry  after 


MOORE'S  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


631 


the  Augnstan  age.  In  the  time  of  Pope,  he  tells  his  friend, 
it  was  all  Horace  with  us.  It  is  all  Claudian  now. 

For  the  great  old  masters  of  the  art  he  had  no  very  en- 
thusiastic veneration.  In  his  letter  to  Mr.  Bowles  he  uses 
expressions  which  clearly  indicate  that  he  preferred  Pope’s 
Iliad  to  the  original.  Mr.  Moore  confesses  that  his  friend 
w^as  no  very  fervent  admirer  of  Shakspeare.  Of  all  the  poets 
of  the  first  class,  Lord  Byron  seems  to  have  admired  Dante 
and  Milton  most.  Yet  in  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold, 
he  places  Tasso,  a writer  not  merely  inferior  to  them,  but  of 
quite  a different  order  of  mind,  on  at  least  a footing  of 
equality  with  them.  Mr.  Hunt  is,  we  suspect,  quite  correct 
in  saying  that  Lord  Byron  could  see  little  or  no  merit  in 
Spenser. 

But  Byron  the  critic  and  Byron  the  poet  were  two  very 
different  men.  The  effects  of  the  noble  writer’s  theory  may 
indeed  often  be  traced  in  his  practice.  But  his  disposition 
led  him  to  accommodate  himself  to  the  literary  taste  of  the 
age  in  which  he  lived ; and  his  talents  would  have  enabled 
him  to  accommodate  himself  to  the  taste  of  any  age. 
Though  he  said  much  of  his  contempt  for  mankind,  and 
though  he  boasted  that  amidst  the  inconstancy  of  fortune 
and  of  fame  he  was  all-sufficient  to  himself,  his  literary 
career  indicated  nothing  of  that  lonely  and  unsocial  pride 
which  he  affected.  We  cannot  conceive  him,  like  Milton 
or  Wordsworth,  defying  the  criticism  of  his  contemporaries, 
retorting  their  scorn,  and  laboring  on  a poem  in  the  full  as- 
surance that  it  would  be  unpopular,  and  in  the  full  assur- 
ance that  it  would  be  immortal.  He  has  said,  by  the  mouth 
of  one  of  his  heroes,  in  speaking  of  political  greatness,  that 
“ he  must  serve  who  fain  would  sway  ; ” and  this  he  assigns 
as  a reason  for  not  entering  into  political  life.  He  did  not 
consider  that  the  sway  which  he  had  exercised  in  literature 
had  been  purchased  by  servitude,  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own 
taste  to  the  taste  of  the  public. 

He  was  the  creature  of  his  age ; and  whenever  he  had  lived 
he  would  have  been  the  creature  of  his  age.  Under  Charles 
the  First  Byron  would  have  been  more  quaint  than  Donne. 
Under  Charles  the  Second  the  rants  of  Byron’s  rhyming 
plays  would  have  pitted  it,  boxed  it,  and  galleried  it,  with 
those  of  any  Bays  or  Bilboa.  Under  George  the  First  the 
monotonous  smoothness  of  Byron’s  versification  and  the 
terseness  of  his  expression  would  have  made  Pope  himself 
envious. 


l>o2  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

As  it  was,  ho  was  the  man  of  the  last  tliirteen  years  of 
die  eighteenth  century,  and  of  the  first  tweiity-tliree  years 
of  the  nineteentli  century.  He  belonged  half  to  the  old, 
and  half  to  the  new  scliool  of  poetry.  Ills  personal  taste  led 
him  to  the  former ; his  tliirst  of  praise  to  the  latter ; his 
talents  were  equally  suited  to  both.  Ilis  fame  was  a com- 
mon ground  on  which  the  zealots  of  both  sides,  Gifford,  for 
example,  and  Shelley,  might  meet.  He  was  the  represen- 
tative, not  of  either  literary  party,  but  of  both  at  once,  and 
of  their  conflict,  and  of  the  victory  by  which  that  conflict 
was  terminated,  hlis  poetry  fills  and  measures  the  whole  of 
the  vast  interval  through  which  our  literature  has  moved 
since  the  time  of  Johnson.  It  touches  the  Essay  on  Man  at 
the  one  extremity,  and  the  Excursion  at  the  other. 

There  are  several  parallel  instances  in  literary  history. 
Voltaire,  for  example,  was  the  connecting  link  between  the 
France  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  and  the  Franco  of  Lewis 
the  Sixteenth,  between  Racine  and  Boileauon  the  one  side, 
and  Condorcet  and  Beaumarchais  on  the  other.  He,  like 
Lord  Byron,  put  himself  at  the  head  of  an  intellectual 
revolution,  dreading  it  all  the  time,  murmuring  at  it,  sneer- 
ing at  it,  yet  choosing  rather  to  move  before  his  age  in  any 
direction  than  to  be  left  behind  and  forgotten.  Dry  den  was 
the  connecting  link  between  the  literature  of  the  age  of 
James  the  First  and  the  literature  of  the  age  of  Anne. 
Oromasdes  and  Arimanes  fought  for  him.  Arirnanes  carried 
liim  off.  But  his  heart  was  to  the  last  with  Oromasdes. 
Lord  Byron  was,  in  the  same  manner,  the  mediator  between 
two  generations,  between  two  hostile  poetical  sects.  Though 
always  sneering  at  Mr.  Wordsworth,  he  was  yet,  though 
perhaps  unconsciously,  the  interpreter  between  Mr.  Words- 
worth and  the  multitude.  In  the  Lyrical  Ballads  and  the 
Excursion  Mr.  Wordsworth  appeared  as  the  high  priest  of 
a worship,  of  which  nature  was  the  idol.  No  poems  have 
ever  indicated  a more  exquisite  perception  of  the  beauty  of 
the  outer  world,  or  a more  passionate  love  and  reverence  for 
that  beauty.  Yet  they  were  not  popular ; and  it  is  not 
likely  that  they  ever  will  be  popular  as  the  poetry  of  Sir 
W alter  Scott  is  popular.  The  feeling  which  pervaded  them 
was  too  deep  for  general  sympathy.  Their  style  was  often 
too  mysterious  for  general  comprehension.  They  made  & 
few  es/)teric  disciples,  and  many  scoffers.  Lord  Byror 
founded  what  may  be  called  an  exoteric  Lake  school ; and 
all  the  readers  of  verse  in  England,  we  might  say  in  Europe, 


Moore’s  life  op  lord  byron. 


683 


hastened  to  sit  at  his  feet.  What  Mr.  Wordsworth  had 
said  like  a recluse,  Lord  Byron  said  like  a man  of  the  world, 
with  less  profound  feeling,  but  with  more  perspicuity,  energy, 
and  conciseness.  We  would  refer  our  readers  to  the  last 
two  cantos  of  Cliilde  Harold  and  to  Manfred,  in  proof  of 
these  observations. 

Lord  Byron,  like  Mr.  Wordsworth,  had  nothing  dramatic 
in  his  genius.  He  was  indeed  the  reverse  of  a great 
dramatist,  the  very  antithesis  to  a great  dramatist.  All  his 
characters,  Harold  looking  on  the  sky,  from  which  his 
country  and  the  sun  are  disappearing  together,  the  Giaour, 
standing  apart  in  the  gloom  of  the  side  aisle,  and  casting  a 
haggard  scowl  from  under  his  long  hood  at  the  crucifix  and 
the  censer,  Conrad  leaning  on  his  sword  by  the  watch-tower, 
Lara  smiling  on  the  dancers.  Alp  gazing  steadily  on  the  fatal 
cloud  as  it  passes  before  the  moon,  Manfred  wandering 
among  the  precipices  of  Berne,  Azzo  on  the  judgment-seat, 
Ugo  at  the  bar,  Lambro  frowning  on  the  siesta  of  his  daugh- 
ter and  Juan,  Cain  j^resenting  his  unacceptable  offering,  are 
essentially  the  same.  The  varieties  are  varieties  merely  of 
age,  situation,  and  outward  show.  If  ever  Lord  Byron 
attempted  to  exhibit  men  of  a different  kind,  he  always 
made  them  cither  insipid  or  unnatural.  Selim  is  nothing. 
Boimivart  is  nothing.  Don  Juan,  in  the  first  and  best  cantos, 
is  a feeble  copy  of  the  page  in  the  Marriage  of  Figaro. 
Johnson,  the  man  whom  Juan  meets  in  the  slave-market,  is  a 
most  striking  failure.  How  differently  would  Sir  Walter 
Scott  have  drawn  a bluff,  fearless  Englishman,  in  such  a 
situation  ! The  jDortrait  would  have  seemed  to  walk  out  of 
the  canvas. 

Sardanapalus  is  more  coarsely  drawn  than  any  dramatic 
personage  that  we  can  remember.  His  heroism  and  his 
effeminacy,  his  contempt  of  death  and  his  dread  of  a weighty 
helmet,  his  kingly  resolution  to  be  seen  in  the  foremost 
ranks,  and  the  anxiety  with  which  he  calls  for  a looking- 
glass,  that  he  may  be  seen  to  advantage,  are  contrasted,  it 
is  true,  with  all  the  point  of  Juvenal.  Indeed,  the  hint  ol 
the  character  seems  to  have  been  taken  from  what  Juvenal 
says  of  Otho : 

“ Speculum  civilis  sarcina  belli. 

Nimirum  summi  duds  est  occidere  Galbam, 

Et  curare  cutem  summi  constantia  civis, 

Bedriaci  in  campo  spoliiim  affectare  Palati, 

Et  pressum  in  faciem  digitis  extend*ere  panein.*' 

These  are  excellent  lines  in  a satire.  But  it  is  not  the 


634 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


business  of  the  dramatist  to  exhibit  characters  in  this  sharp  I 
antitlietical  way.  It  is  not  thus  that  Shakspeare  makes  I 
Prince  TTal  rise  from  tlie  rake  of  Eastclieap  into  the  hero  of  | 
Shrewsbury,  and  sink  again  into  the  rake  of  Eastcheap.  It  I 
is  not  thus  that  Shakspeare  has  exhibited  the  union  of  | 
effeminacy  and  valor  in  Antony.  A dramatist  cannot  commit  ! 
a greater  error  tlian  that  of  following  those  pointed  descrip-  j 
t-ions  of  character  in  which  satirists  and  historians  indulge  i 
so  much.  It  is  by  rejecting  what  is  natural  that  satirists  V 
and  historians  produce  these  striking  characters.  Their  < 
great  object  generally  is  to  ascribe  to  every  man  as  many  i 
contradictory  qualities  as  possible,  and  this  is  an  object 
easily  attained.  By  judicious  selection  and  judicious  exag-  , 
geration,  the  intellect  and  the  disposition  of  any  human 
being  might  be  described  as  being  made  up  of  nothing  but 
startling  contrasts.  If  the  dramatist  attempts  to  create  a 
being  answering  to  one  of  these  descriptions,  he  fails,  be- 
cause he  reverses  an  imperfect  analytical  process.  He  pro- 
duces, not  a man,  but  a personified  epigiam.  Very  eminent 
writers  have  fallen  into  this  snare.  Ben  Jonson  has  given 
us  a Hermogenes,  taken  from  the  lively  lines  of  Horace,  but  1 
the  inconsistency  which  is  so  amusing  in  the  satire  appears 
unnatural  and  disgusts  us  in  the  play.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
has  committed  a far  more  glaring  error  of  the  same  kind  in 
the  novel  of  Peveril.  Admiring,  as  every  judicious  reader 
must  admire,  the  keen  and  vigorous  lines  in  which  Dryden 
satirized  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  Sir  Walter  attempted  to 
make  a Duke  of  Buckingham  to  suit  them,  a real  living 
Zimri ; and  he  made,  not  a man,  but  the  most  grotesque  of 
all  monsters.  A writer  who  should  attempt  to  introduce 
into  a play  or  a novel  such  a Wharton  as  the  Wharton  of 
Pope,  or  a Lord  Hervey  answering  to  Sporus,  would  fail  in 
the  same  manner. 

But  to  return  to  Lord  Byron ; his  women,  like  his  men, 
are  all  of  one  breed.  Haidee  is  a half-savage  and  girlish  ' 
Julia  ; Julia  is  a civilized  and  matronly  Haidee.  Leila  is  a 
wedded  Zuleika,  Zuleika  a virgin  Leila.  Gulnare  and  Medora 
appear  to  have  been  intentionally  opposed  to  each  other. 

Y et  the  difference  is  a difference  of  situation  only.  A slight 
change  of  circumstances  would,  it  should  seem,  have  sent 
Gulnare  to  the  lute  of  Medora,  and  armed  Medora  with  the 
dagger  of  Gulnare.  j 

It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say,  that  Lord  Byron  could  ex-  ' 

bibit  only  one  man  and  only  one  woman,  a man  proud,  i 


MOORE  S LIFE  OF  LORD  BYROK. 


635 


moody,  cynical,  with  defiance  on  \m  brow,  and  misery  in 
his  heart,  a scorner  of  his  kind,  implacable  in  revenj^e,  yet 
capable  of  deep  and  strong  affection  : a woman  all  softness 
and  gentleness,  loving  to  caress  and  to  be  caressed,  but  ca- 
pable of  being  transformed  by  passion  into  a tigress. 

Even  these  two  characters,  his  only  two  characters,  he 
cculd  not  exhibit  dramatically.  He  exhibited  them  in  the 
'manner,  not  of  Shakspeare,  but  of  Clarendon.  He  analyzed 
them,  he  made  them  analyze  themselves  ; but  he  did  not 
make  them  show  themselves.  We  are  told,  for  example, 
in  many  lines  of  great  force  and  spirit,  that  the  speech  of 
Lara  was  bitterly  sarcastic,  that  he  talked  little  of  his 
travels,  that  if  he  was  much  questioned  about  them,  his  an- 
swers became  short,  and  his  brow  gloomy.  But  we  have 
none  of  Lara’s  sarcastic  speeches  or  short  answers.  It  is 
not  thus  that  the  great  masters  of  human  nature  have  por- 
trayed human  beings.  ITomer  never  tells  us  that  Nestor 
loved  to  relate  long  stories  about  his  youth.  Shakspeare 
never  tells  us  that  in  the  mind  of  lago  every  thing  that  is 
beautiful  and  endearing  was  associated  with  some  filthy  and 
debasing  idea. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  tendency  which  the  dialogue  of 
Lord  Byron  always  has  to  lose  its  character  of  a dialogue  and 
to  become  soliloquy.  The  scenes  between  Manfred  and  the 
Chamois-hunter,  between  Manfred  and  the  Witch  of  the 
Alps,  between  Manfred  and  the  Abbot,  are  instances  of  this 
tendency.  Manfred,  after  a few  unimportant  speeches,  has 
all  the  talk  to  himself.  The  other  interlocutors  are  nothing 
more  than  good  listeners.  They  drop  an  occasional  question 
or  ejaculation  which  sets  Manfred  off  again  on  the  inex- 
haustible topic  of  his  personal  feelings.  If  we  examine  the 
fine  passages  in  Lord  Byron’s  dramas,  the  description  of 
liome,  for  example,  in  Manfred,  the  description  of  a Vene- 
tian revel  in  Marino  Faliero,  the  concluding  invective  which 
the  old  doge  pronounces  against  Venice,  we  shall  find  that 
there  is  nothing  dramatic  in  these  speeches,  that  they  derive 
none  of  their  effect  from  the  character  or  situation  of  the 
speaker,  and  that  they  would  have  been  as  fine,  or  finer,  if 
they  had  been  published  as  fragments  of  blank  verse  by 
Lord  Byron.  There  is  scarcely  a speech  in  Shakspeare  of 
which  the  same  could  be  said.  No  skilful  reader  of  Shak- 
speare can  endure  to  see  what  are  called  the  fine  things 
taken  out,  under  the  name  of  “ Beauties ” or  of  “Elegant 
Extracts,”  or  to  hear  any  single  passage,  “ To  be  or  not  to 


636 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  'writings. 


be,”  for  example,  quoted  as  a sample  of  tlie  great  poet. 

To  be  or  not  to  be  ” has  merit  undoubtedly  as  a composi- 
tion. It  would  have  merit  if  put  into  the  mouth  of  a 
chorus.  But  its  merit  as  a composition  vanishes  when  com- 
pared  with  its  merit  as  belonging  to  Hamlet.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  the  great  plays  of  ShaksjKiare  would  lose 
less  by  being  deprived  of  all  the  passages  which  are  com- 
monly called  the  fine  passages,  than  those  passages  Icse  by 
being  read  separately  from  the  play.  Tliis  is  perhaps  the 
highest  praise  which  can  be  given  to  a dramatist. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  doubted  Avhether  there  is, 
in  all  Lord  Byron’s  plays,  a single  remarkable  passage  which 
owes  any  portion  or  its  interest  or  effect  to  its  connection 
with  the  characters  or  the  action.  He  has  written  only  one 
scene,  as  far  as  we  can  recollect,  which  is  dramatic  even  in 
manner,  the  scene  between  Lucifer  and  Cain.  The  confer- 
ence is  animated,  and  each  of  the  interlocutors  has  a fair 
share  of  it.  But  this  scene,  when  examined,  will  be  found 
to  be  a confirmation  of  our  remarks.  It  is  a dialogue  only 
in  form.  It  is  a soliloquy  in  essence.  It  is  in  reality  a de- 
bate carried  on  within  one  single  unquiet  and  skeptical  mind. 
The  questions  and  the  answers,  the  objections  and  the  solu- 
tions, all  belong  to  the  same  character. 

A writer  who  showed  so  little  dramatic  skill  in  works 
professedly  dramatic  was  not  likely  to  write  narrative  with 
dramatic  effect.  Nothing  could  indeed  be  more  rude  and 
careless  than  the  structure  of  his  narrative  poems.  He 
seems  to  have  thought,  with  the  hero  of  the  Rehearsal, 
that  the  plot  was  good  for  nothing  but  to  bring  in  fine  things. 
His  two  longest  works,  Chiide  Harold  and  I)on  Juan,  have 
no  plan  whatever.  Either  of  them  might  have  been  ex- 
tended to  any  length,  or  cut  short  at  any  point.  The  state 
in  which  the  Giaour  appears  illustrates  the  manner  in  which 
all  Byron’s  poems  were  constructed.  They  are  all,  like  the 
Giaour,  collections  of  fragments ; and,  though  there  may 
be  no  empty  spaces  marked  by  asterisks,  it  is  still  easy  to 
peiceive,  by  the  clumsiness  of  the  joining,  Avhere  the  parts 
for  the  sake  of  which  the  w^hole  'was  composed  end  and 
begin. 

It  was  in  description  and  meditation  that  Byron  excelled. 
‘‘Description,”  as  he  said  in  Don  Juan,  “was  his  forte.”  His 
manner  is  indeed  peculiar,  and  is  almost  unequalled  ; rapid, 
sketchy,  full  of  vigor  ; the  selection  happy  ; the  stn>kes  few 
and  bold.  In  spite  of  the  reverence  'v\^hich  we  feel  for  the 


Moore’s  life  of  lord  b\ron.  C37 

genius  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  we  cannot  but  think  that  the 
minuteness  of  his  descriptions  often  diminishes  their  effect. 
He  has  accustomed  himself  to  gaze  on  nature  with  the  eye 
of  a lover,  to  dwell  on  every  feature,  and  to  mark  every 
change  of  aspect.  Those  beauties  which  strike  the  most 
negligent  observer,  and  those  which  only  a close  attention 
discovers,  are  equally  familiar  to  him  and  are  equally  prom- 
inent in  his  poetry.  The  proverb  of  old  Hesiod,  that  half 
is  often  more  than  the  whole,  is  eminently  applicable  to 
description.  The  policy  of  the  Dutch  who  cut  down  most 
of  the  precious  trees  in  the  Spice  Islands,  in  order  to  raise 
the  value  of  what  remained,  was  a policy  which  poets  would 
do  well  to  imitate.  It  was  a policy  which  no  poet  under- 
stood better  than  Lord  Byron.  Whatever  his  faults  might 
be,  he  was  never,  while  his  mind  retained  its  vigor,  accused 
of  prolixity. 

His  descriptions,  great  as  was  their  intrinsic  merit,  de- 
rived their  principal  interest  from  the  feeling  which  always 
mingled  with  them.  He  was  himself  the  beginning,  the 
middle,  and  the  end,  of  all  his  own  poetry,  the  hero  of  every 
tale,  the  chief  object  in  every  landscape.  Harold,  Lara, 
Manfred,  and  a crowd  of  other  characters,  were  universally 
considered  merely  as  loose  incognitos  of  Byron ; and  there 
is  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  meant  them  to  be  so  con- 
sidered. The  wonders  of  the  outer  world,  the  Tagus,  with 
the  mighty  fleets  of  England  riding  on  its  bosom,  the  towers 
of  Cintra  overhanging  the  shaggy  forest  of  cork-trees  and 
willows,  the  glaring  marble  of  Pentelicus,  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine,  the  glaciers  of  Clarens,  the  sweet  Lake  of  Leman, 
the  dell  of  Egeria  with  its  summer-birds  and  rustling  lizards, 
the  shapeless  ruins  of  Rome  overgrown  with  ivy  and  wall- 
flowers, the  stars,  the  sea,  the  mountains,  all  were  mere  ac- 
cessaries, the  background  to  one  dark  and  melancholy  figure. 

Newer  had  any  writer  so  vast  a command  of  the  whole 
eloquence  of  scorn,  misanthropy  and  despair.  That  Marah 
<\^as  never  dry.  No  art  could  sweeten,  no  draughts  could 
vxhaust,  its  perennial  Avaters  of  bitterness.  Never  was  there 
mch  variety  in  monotony  as  that  of  Byron.  From  maniac 
(aughter  to  piercing  lamentation,  there  Avas  not  a single  note 
df  human  anguish  of  which  he  was  not  master.  Year  after 
7car,  and  month  after  month,  he  continued  to  repeat  that  to 
be  wretched  is  the  destiny  of  all;  that  to  be  eminently 
wretched  is  the  destiny  of  the  eminent ; that  all  the  desires 
by  which  we  are  eursed  lead  alike  to  misery,  if  they  axe  no* 


^38 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WllITINOS. 


gratified,  to  clic  misery  cf  disappointment,  if  they  are  grati 
fied,  to  the  misery  of  satiety.  Ilis  heroes  are  men  who 
have  arrived  by  different  roads  at  the  same  goal  of  despair, 
who  are  sick  of  life,  who  are  at  war  with  society,  who  are 
6U])jx)rted  in  tlieir  anguish  only  by  an  unconquerable  pride 
resembling  that  of  Prometheus  on  the  rock  or  of  Satan  in 
the  buining  marl,  who  can  master  their  agonies  by  the  force 
of  theii  will,  and  who,  to  the  last,  defy  the  whole  power  of 
earth  and  heaven.  He  always  described  himself  as  a man 
of  the  same  kind  with  his  favorite  creations,  as  a man  whose 
heart  had  been  withered,  whose  capacity  for  happiness  was 
gone  and  could  not  be  restored,  but  whose  invincible  spirit 
dared  the  worst  that  could  befall  him  here  or  hereafter. 

How  much  of  this  morbid  feeling  sprang  from  an  origi- 
nal disease  of  the  mind,  how  much  from  real  misfortune, 
how  much  from  the  nervousness  of  dissipation,  how  much 
was  fanciful,  how  much  was  merely  affected,  it  is  im- 
possible for  us,  and  would  probably  have  been  impos- 
sible for  the  most  intimate  friends  of  Lord  Byron,  to  de- 
cide. Whether  there  ever  existed,  or  can  ever  exist,  a per- 
son answering  to  the  description  which  he  gave  of  himself 
may  be  doubted ; but  that  he  was  not  such  a person  is  be- 
yond all  doubt.  It  is  ridiculous  to  imagine  that  a man 
whose  mind  was  really  imbued  with  scorn  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  would  have  published  three  or  four  books  every 
year  in  order  to  tell  them  so ; or  that  a man  who  could  say 
with  truth  that  he  neither  sought  sympathy  nor  needed  it 
would  have  admitted  all  Europe  to  h6ar  his  farewell  to  his 
wife,  and  his  blessings  on  his  child.  In  the  second  canto  of 
Childe  Harold,  he  tells  us  that  he  is  insensible  to  fame  and 
obloquy : 

111  may  such  contest  now*  the  spirit  move, 

Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproof  nor  partial  praise.” 

Tet  we  know  on  the  best  evidence  that,  a day  or  two  before 
he  published  these  lines,  he  was  greatly,  indeed  childishly, 
elated  by  the  compliments  paid  to  his  maiden  speech  in  the 
House  of  Lords. 

We  are  far,  however,  from  thinking  that  his  sadness  was 
altogether  feigned.  He  was  naturally  a man  of  great  sen- 
sibility; he  had  been  ill  educated;  his  feelings  had  been 
early  exposed  to  sharp  trials ; he  had  been  crossed  in  his 
boyish  love ; he  had  been  mortified  by  the  failure  of  his  first 
literary  efforts ; he  was  straitened  in  pecuniary  circumstau* 


MOOHE’S  life  op  LORL  BYRON. 


639 


cee  ; he  was  rnifortiniatc  in  liis  domestic  relations  ; the  pub- 
lie  treated  him  with  cruel  injustice : his  health  and  spirits 
Buffered  from  his  dissi])ated  habits  of  life  ; he  was  on  the 
whole,  an  unha])j>y  man.  He  early  discovered  that,  by  pa- 
rading his  unhappiness  before  the  multitude,  he  prod  need  an 
immense  sensation.  The  woi'ld  gave  him  every  encourag<;- 
ment  to  talk  about  his  mental  sufferings.  The  interest 
which  his  first  confessions  excited  induced  him  to  affect 
much  that  he  did  not  feel ; and  the  affectation  probably 
reacted  on  his  feelings.  ITow  far  the  character  in  which  he 
exhibited  himself  was  genuine,  and  how  far  theatrical,  it 
would  probably  have  puzzled  himself  to  say. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  remarkable  man  owed 
tlie  vast  influence  which  he  exercised  over  his  contempo- 
raries at  least  as  much  to  his  gloomy  egotism  as  to  the  real 
])Ower  of  his  poetry.  We  never  could  very  clearly  under- 
stand how  it  is  that  egotism,  so  unpopular  in  conversation, 
should  be  so  popular  in  writing ; or  how  it  is  that  men  who 
affect  in  their  compositions  qualities  and  feelings  which 
they  have  not,  impose  so  much  more  easily  on  their  contem- 
poraries than  on  posterity.  The  interest  which  the  loves  of 
Petrarch  excited  in  his  own  time,  and  the  pitying  fondness 
with  which  half  Europe  looked  upon  Rousseau,  are  well 
known.  To  readers  of  our  age,  the  love  of  Petrarch  seems 
to  have  been  love  of  that  kind  which  breaks  no  hearts,  and 
I the  sufferings  of  Rousseau  to  have  deserved  laughter  rather 
than  pity,  to  have  been  partly  counterfeited,  and  partly  the 
1 consequences  of  his  own  perverseness  and  vanity. 

What  our  grandchildren  may  think  of  the  character  of 
Lord  Byron,  as  exhibited  in  his  poetry,  we  will  not  pretend 
to  guess.  It  is  certain,  that  the  interest  which  he  excited 
during  his  life  is  without  a parallel  in  literary  history.  The 
feeling  with  which  young  readers  of  poetry  regard  him  can 
be  conceived  only  by  those  who  have  experienced  it.  To 
people  who  are  unacquainted  with  real  calamity,  ‘‘  nothing 
is  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy.”  This  faint  image 
of  sorrow  has  in  all  ages  been  considered  by  young  gentle- 
men as  an  agreeable  excitement.  Old  gentlemen  and  mid- 
dle-aged gentlemen  have  so  many  real  causes  of  sadness  that 
they  are  rarely  inclined  “ to  be  as  sad  as  night  only  for 
wantonness.”  Indeed  they  want  the  power  almost  as  much 
as  the  inclination.  We  know  very  few  persons  engaged  in 
active  life  who,  even  if  they  were  to  procure  stools  to  be 
melancholy  upon,  and  were  to  sit  down  with  all  the  premed- 


640  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  Writings. 

itation  of  Master  Stephen,  would  be  able  to  enjoy  much  of 
what  somebody  calls  the  “ ecstasy  of  woe.” 

Among  that  large  class  of  young  persons  whose  reading 
is  almost  entirely  confined  to  works  of  imagination,  the 
popularity  of  Lord  Byron  was  unbounded.  They  bought 
pictures  of  him ; they  treasured  up  the  smallest  relics  of 
him ; they  learned  his  ])oems  by  heart,  and  did  their  best  to 
write  like  him,  and  to  look  like  him.  Many  of  them  prac- 
tised at  the  glass  in  the  ho[>e  of  catching  the  curl  of  the 
upper  lip,  and  the  scowl  of  the  brow,  which  appear  in  some 
of  his  portraits.  A few  discarded  their  neckcloths  in  imita- 
tion of  their  great  leader.  For  some  years  the  Minerva 
press  sent  forth  no  novel  without  a mysterious,  unhappy, 
Lara-like  peer.  The  number  of  hopeful  under-graduates 
and  medical  students  who  became  things  of  dark  imagin- 
ings, on  whom  the  freshness  of  the  heart  ceased  to  fall  like 
dew,  whose  passions  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust,  and 
to  whom  the  relief  of  tears  was  denied,  passes  all  calculation. 
This  was  not  the  worst.  There  was  created  in  the  minds  of 
many  of  these  enthusiasts  a pernicious  and  absurd  associa* 
tion  between  intellectual  power  and  moral  depravity. 
From  the  poetry  of  Lord  Byron  they  drew  a system  of 
ethics,  compounded  of  misanthropy  and  voluptuousness,  a 
system  in  which  the  two  great  commandments  were,  to  hate 
your  neighbor,  and  to  love  your  neighbor’s  wdfe. 

This  affectation  has  passed  aw^ay ; and  a few  more  years 
will  destroy  whatever  yet  remains  of  tliat  magical  potency 
which  once  belonged  to  the  name  of  Byron.  To  us  he  i.-i 
still  a man,  young,  noble,  and  unhappy.  To  our  children  he 
will  be  merely  a writer;  and  their  impartial  judgment  will 
appoint  his  place  among  writers,  without  regard  to  his  ran); 
or  to  his  private  history.  That  his  poetry  will  undergo 
a severe  sifting,  that  much  of  what  has  been  admired  by  his 
contemporaries  will  be  rejected  as  worthless,  we  have  little 
doubt.  But  we  have  as  little  doubt,  that,  after  the  closest 
scrutiny,  there  will  still  remain  much  that  can  only  peiish 
with  the  English  language. 


] 


SAMUEL  JOHNSOIC. 


64J 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  * 

{Edinburgh  RevieWy  September,  1831.) 

This  work  has  greatly  disappointed  us.  Whatever  faults 
we  may  have  been  prepared  to  find  in  it,  we  fully  expected 
that  it  would  be  a valuable  addition  to  English  literature ; 
that  it  would  contain  many  curious  facts,  and  many  judi- 
cious remarks ; that  the  style  of  the  notes  would  be  neat, 
clear,  and  precise;  and  that  the  typographical  execution 
would  be,  as  in  new  editions  of  classical  works  it  ought  to  be, 
almost  faultless.  We  are  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  say  that  the 
merits  of  Mr.  Croker’s  performance  are  on  a par  ^vith.  those 
of  a certain  leg  of  mutton  on  which  Dr.  Johnson  dined,  while 
travelling  from  London  to  Oxford,  and  which  he,  with  char- 
ijcteristic  energy,  pronounced  to  be  ‘‘  as  bad  as  bad  could 
be,  ill  fed,  ill  killed,  ill  kept,  and  ill  dressed.”  This  edition 
is  ill  compiled,  ill  arranged,  ill  written,  and  ill  printed. 

Nothing  in  the  work  has  astonished  us  so  much  as  the 
ignorance  and  carelessness  of  Mr.  Crokcr  Avith  respect  to 
facts  and  dates.  Many  of  his  blunders  are  such  as  wc  should 
be  surprised  to  hear  any  well  educated  gentleman  commit, 
even  in  conversation.  The  notes  absolutely  SAvarm  Avdth 
misstatements  into  Avhich  the  editor  ne\"er  Avould  have  fallen, 
if  he  had  taken  the  slightest  pains  to  inA' estigate  the  truth  of 
his  assertions,  or  if  he  had  even  been  Avell  acquainted  Avith 
the  book  on  which  he  undertook  to  comment.  We  wrl 
^ive  a few  instances. 

Mr.  Croker  tells  us  in  a note  that  Derrick,  avIio  Avas  mas 
ter  of  the  ceremonies  at  Bath,  died  Axry  poor  in  ITGO.f  Wo 
read  on ; and,  a few  pages  later,  we  find  Dr.  Johnson  and 
Boswell  talking  of  this  same  Derrick  as  still  living  and 
reigning,  as  having  retrieA^ed  his  character,  as  possessing  so 
much  power  over  his  subjects  at  Bath,  that  his  opposition 
might  be  fatal  to  Sheridan’s  lectures  on  oratory,  t And  all 
this  is  in  1763.  The  fact  is,  that  Derrick  died  in  1769. 

Ill  one  note  Ave  read,  that  Sir  Herbert  Croft,  the  author 
of  that  pompous  and  foolish  account  of  Young,  which  ap- 

♦ The  Life  of  Samuel  John  son,  LL.D.  Including  a Journal  of  a Tour  to  the 
Hebrides,  by  James  Boswell,  Esq.  A new  Edition,  with  numerous  Additions  and 
Notes,  By  John  Wilson  Choker,  LL.D.  F.R.S.  Five  volumes,  8vo.  London* 
1831.  tl.  394.  tl.  404. 

VoL.  I. — 41 


<5^12 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


pears  among  the  Lives  of  the  Poets,  died  in  1805.*  An 
other  note  in  tlie  same  volume  states,  that  this  same  Sii 
Herbert  Croft  died  at  Paris,  after  residing  abroad  for  fifteen 
years,  on  the  27th  of  April  ISlG.f 

Mr.  Croker  informs  us,  that  Sir  William  Forbes  of  Pit- 
sligo,  the  author  of  the  Life  of  Beattie,  died  in  1816.t  A Sir 
William  Forbes  undoubtedly  died  in  that  year,  but  not  the 
Sir  William  Forbes  in  question,  whose  death  took  place  in 
1806.  It  is  notorious,  indeed,  that  the  biographer  of  Beat- 
Le  lived  just  long  enough  to  complete  the  history  of  his 
friend.  Eight  or  nine  years  before  the  date  which  Mr. 
Croker  has  assigned  for  Sir  William’s  death  Sir  Walter 
Scott  lamented  that  event  in  the  introduction  to  the  fourth 
canto  of  Marmion.  Every  school-girl  knows  the  lines : 

“ Scarce  had  lamented  Forbes  paid 
The  tribute  to  his  Minstrel’s  shade  ; 

The  tale  of  friendship  scarce  was  told. 

Ere  the  narrator’s  heart  was  cold : 

Far  may  we  search  before  we  find 
A heart  so  manly  and  so  kind  ! 

In  one  place,  we  are  told,  that  Allan  Ramsay,  the  painter, 
was  born  in  1709,  and  died  in  1784;  § in  another,  that  he 
died  in  1784,  in  the  seventy-first  year  of  his  age.|| 

In  one  place,  Mr.  Croker  says,  that  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  intimacy  between  Dr.  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Thrale, 
In  1765,  the  lady  was  twenty-five  years  old.1T  In  other  places 
he  says,  that  Mrs.  Thrale’s  thirty-fifth  year  coincided  with 
Johnson’s  seventieth.**  Johnson  w^as  born  in  1709.  If, 
therefore,  Mrs.  Thrale’s  thirty-fifth  year  coincided  with 
Johnson’s  seventieth,  she  could  have  been  only  twenty-one 
years  old  in  1765.  This  is  not  all.  Mr.  Croker,  in  another 
place,  assigns  the  year  1777  as  the  date  of  the  complimentary 
lines  which  Johnson  made  on  Mrs.  Thrale’s  thirty-fifth  birth- 
day.tt  If  llii®  <1^1®  correct,  Mrs.  Thrale  must  have  been 
born  in  1742,  and  could  have  been  only  twenty-three  when 
her  acquaintance  with  Johnson  commenced.  Mr.  Croker 
therefore  gives  us  three  different  statements  as  to  her  age. 
Two  of  the  three  must  be  incorrect.  We  will  not  decide 
between  them ; we  will  only  say,  that  the  reasons  which 
Mr.  Croker  gives  for  thinking  that  Mrs.  Thrale  was  exactly 
thirty-five  years  old  when  Johnson  was  seventy,  appear  to 
ns  utterly  frivolous. 

Again,  Mr.  Croker  informs  his  readers  that  “Lord  Mans^ 

♦rv.  321,  t IV.  428.  JII.  262. 

§ IV.  105.  a V,  281,  IT  I.  610.  **IV.  271.  322.  n 3lL.  469. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


643 


field  survived  Johnson  full  ten  years.”  * Lord  Mansfield 
survived  Dr.  Johnson  just  eight  years  and  a quarter. 

Johnson  found  in  the  library  of  a French  lady,  whom  he 
visited  during  his  short  visit  to  Paris,  some  works  which  he 
regarded  with  great  disdain.  “ I looked,”  says  he,  “ into 
the  books  in  the  lady’s  closet,  and,  in  contempt,  showed 
them  to  Mr.  Thrale.  Prince  Titi,  Bibliotheque  des  Fees, 
and  other  books.”f  “ The  History  of  Prince  Titi,”  observes 
Mr.  Croker,  “ was  said  to  be  the  autobiography  of  Frederick 
Prince  of  Wales,  but  was  probably  written  by  Ralph  his 
secretary.”  A more  absurd  note  never  was  penned.  The 
history  of  Prince  Titi,  to  which  Mr.  Croker  refers,  whether 
written  by  Prince  Frederick  or  by  Ralph,  was  certainly 
never  published.  If  Mr.  Croker  had  taken  the  trouble  to 
read  with  attention  that  very  passage  in  Park’s  Royal  and 
Noble  Authors  which  he  cites  as  his  authority,  he  would 
have  seen  that  the  manuscript  was  given  up  to  the  govern- 
ment. Even  if  this  memoir  had  been  printed,  it  is  not  very 
likely  to  find  its  way  into  a French  lady’s  bookcase.  And 
would  any  man  in  his  senses  speak  contemptuously  of  a 
French  lady,  for  having  in  her  possession  an  English  work, 
so  curious  and  interesting  as  a Life  of  Prince  Frederick, 
W’^hether  written  by  himself  or  by  a confidential  secretary, 
must  have  been  ? The  history  at  which  Johnson  laughed 
was  a very  proper  companion  to  the  Bibliotheque  des  Fees, 
a fairy  tale  about  good  Prince  Titi  and  naughty  Prince 
Violent.  Mr.  Croker  may  find  it  in  the  Magasin  des  En- 
fans,  the  first  French  book  which  the  little  girls  of  England 
read  to  their  governesses. 

Mr.  Croker  states  that  Mr.  Henry  Bate,  who  afterwards 
assumed  the  name  of  Dudley,  was  proprietor  of  the  Morning 
Herald,  and  fought  a duel  with  George  Robinson  Stoney 
ill  consequence  of  some  attacks  on  Lady  Strathmore  whicl 
appeared  in  that  paper.}  Now  Mr.  Bate  was  then  con 
nected,  not  with  the  Morning  Herald,  but  with  the  Morning 
Post ; and  the  dispute  took  place  before  the  Morning  IIeral3 
was  in  existence.  The  duel  was  fought  in  January,  1777^ 
The  Chronicle  of  the  Annual  Register  for  that  year  contains 
an  account  of  the  transaction,  and  distinctly  states  that  Mr. 
Bate  was  editor  of  the  Morning  Post.  The  Morning  Herald, 
as  any  person  may  see  by  looking  at  any  number  of  it,  was 
not  established  till  some  years  after  this  affair.  For  this 
blunder  there  is,  we  must  acknowledge,  some  excuse : for  it 
♦XI.  161,  t XXL  271,  tV.  196, 


644 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


certainly  seems  almost  incredible  to  a person  living  in  oui 
time  that  any  human  being  should  ever  have  stooped  tc 
fight  with  a writer  in  the  Morning  l^ost. 

‘‘James  de  Duglas,”  says  Mr.  Croker,  “was  requested 
by  King  Robert  Bruce,  in  his  last  hours,  to  repair,  with  his 
he^irt  to  Jerusalem,  and  humbly  to  deposit  it  at  the  sepul- 
chre of  our  Lord,  which  he  did  in  1329.”  * Now,  it  is  well  \ 

known  that  he  did  no  such  thing,  and  for  a very  sufficient  ^ 
reason,  because  he  was  killed  by  the  way.  Nor  was  it  in 
1329  that  he  set  out.  Robert  Bruce  died  in  1329,  and  the 
expedition  of  Douglas  took  place  in  the  following  year, 

“ Quand  le  printems  vint  et  la  saison,”  says  Froissart,  in 
Tune,  1330,  says  Lord  Hailes,  whom  Mr.  Croker  cites  as  ^ 
the  authority  for  his  statement.  i 

Mr.  Croker  tells  us  that  the  great  Marquis  of  Montrose  ; 
was  beheaded  at  Edinburgh  in  1650. t There  is  not  a for  ^ 
ward  boy  at  any  school  in  England  who  does  not  know  that 
the  marquis  was  hanged.  The  account  of  the  execution  is  i 

one  of  the  finest  passages  in  Lord  Clarendon’s  History.  - 

We  can  scarcely  suppose  that  Mr.  Croker  has  never  read  > 

that  passage ; and  yet  we  can  scarcely  suppose  that  any  per- 
son who  has  ever  pursued  so  noble  and  pathetic  a story  can  i 
have  utterly  forgotten  all  its  most  striking  circumstances. 

“ Lord  Townshend,”  says  Mr.  Croker,  “ was  not  secre-  i 

tary  of  state  till  1720.”$  Can  Mr.  Croker  possibly  be  ig-  i 

norant  that  Lord  Townshend  was  made  secretary  of  state  :i 

at  the  accession  of  George  I.  in  1714,  that  he  continued  to  f 

be  secretary  of  state  till  he  was  displaced  by  the  intrigues  • 

of  Sunderland  and  Stanhope  at  the  close  of  1716,  and  that 
he  returned  to  the  office  of  secretary  of  state,  not  in  1720,  ^ 

but  in  1721 ? j 

Mr.  Croker,  indeed,  is  generally  unfortunate  in  his  state-  : 
ments  respecting  the  Townshend  family.  He  tells  us  that  ' 
Charles  Townshend,  the  chancellor  of  the  exchequer,  was  | 
“ nephew  of  the  prime  minister,  and  son  of  a peer  who  was 
secretary  of  state,  and  leader  of  the  House  of  Lords.”§  i 
Charles  Townshend  was  not  nephew,  but  grandnephew,  of  | 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  not  son,  but  grandson,  of  the  Lord  •: 
Townshend  who  was  secretary  of  state,  and  leader  of  the  ' 
House  of  Lords. 

“ General  Burgoyne  surrendered  at  Saratoga,”  says  Mr. 
Croker,  “in  March,  1778.” ||  General  Burgoyne  surren 
dered  on  the  17th  of  October,  1777,  f 

♦ IV.  28.  1 11=  626.  i in.  62.  6 in.  868.  U IV.  222. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


645 


Nothing,”  says  Mr.  Croker,  “can  be  more  unfounded 
than  the  assertion  that  Byng  fell  a martyr  to  political  party . 
By  a strange  coincidence  of  circumstances,  it  happened  that 
there  was  a total  change  of  administration  between  his  con- 
demnation and  his  death  : so  that  one  party  presided  at  his 
trial,  and  another  at  his  execution  : there  can  be  no  stronger 
proof  that  he  was  not  a political  martyr.”  * Now  what  will 
our  readers  think  of  this  writer,  when  we  assure  them  that 
this  statement,  so  confidently  made,  respecting  events  so 
notorious,  is  absolutely  untrue  ? One  and  the  same  admin- 
istration  was  in  ofiice  when  the  court-martial  on  Byng  com- 
menced its  sittings,  through  the  whole  trial,  at  the  con- 
demnation, and  at  the  execution.  In  the  month  of  Novem- 
ber, 1756,  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  and  Lord  Hardwicke  re- 
signed ; the  Duke  of  Devonshire  became  first  lord  of  the 
treasury,  and  Mr.  Pitt,  secretary  of  state.  This  administra- 
tion lasted  till  the  month  of  April,  1757.  Byng’s  court- 
martial  began  to  sit  on  the  28th  of  December,  1756.  He 
was  shot  on  the  14th  of  March,  1757.  There  is  something 
at  once  diverting  and  provoking  in  the  cool  and  authorita- 
tive manner  in  which  Mr.  Croker  makes  these  random  as- 
sertions. We  do  not  suspect  him  of  intentionally  falsifying 
history.  But  of  this  high  literary  misdemeanor  we  do  with- 
out hesitation  accuse  him,  that  he  has  no  adequate  sense  of 
the  obligation  which  a writer,  who  professes  to  relate  facts, 
owes  to  the  public.  We  accuse  him  of  a negligence  and  ig- 
norance analogous  to  that  crassa  negligentia^  and  that 
crassa  ignorantia,  on  Avhich  the  law  animadverts  in  magis- 
trates and  surgeons,  e\  en  when  malice  and  corruption  arc 
not  imputed.  We  accuse  him  of  having  undertaken  a work 
which,  if  not  performed  with  strict  accuracy,  must  be  very 
much  worse  than  useless,  and  of  having  performed  it  as  if 
the  difference  between  an  accurate  and  an  inaccurate  state- 
ment was  not  worth  the  trouble  of  looking  into  the  most 
common  book  of  reference. 

But  we  must  proceed.  These  volumes  contain  mistakes 
more  gross,  if  possible,  than  any  that  we  have  yet  men- 
tioned. Boswell  has  recorded  some  observations  made  by 
Johnson  on  the  changes  which  had  taken  place  in  Gibbon’s 
religious  opinions.  That  Gibbon  when  a lad  at  Oxford 
turned  Catholic  is  well  known.  “ It  is  said,”  cried  Johnson, 
laughing,  “that  he  has  been  a Mahommedan.”  “This  sar- 
casm,” says  the  editor;  “ probably  alludes  to  the  tenderness 


646 


MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


with  which  Gibbon’s  malevolence  to  Christianity  induced 
him  to  treat  Mahommedanism  in  his  history.”  Now  the 
sarcasm  was  uttered  inl77G;  and  that  part  of  the  History 
of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  which  relateo 
to  Mahommedanism  was  not  published  till  1788,  twelve 
years  after  the  date  of  this  conversation,  and  nearly  four 
years  after  the  death  of  Johnson.* 

“It  was  in  the  year  1761,”  says  Mr.  Croker,  “that  Gold- 
ijmith  published  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  This  leads  tire 
editor  to  observe  a more  serious  inaccuracy  of  Mrs.  Piozzi, 
than  Mr.  Boswell  notices,  when  he  says  Johnson  left  her 
table  to  go  and  sfill  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  for  Goldsmitli. 
Now  Dr.  Johnson  was  not  acquainted  with  the  Thrales  till 
1765,  four  years  after  the  book  had  been  published.”  f Mr. 
Croker,  in  reprehending  the  fancied  inaccuracy  of  Mrs. 
Thrale,  has  himself  shown  a degree  of  inaccuracy,  or,  to 
speak  more  properly,  a degree  of  ignorance,  hardly  credible. 
In  the  first  place,  Johnson  became  acquainted  wdth  the 
Thrales,  not  in  1765,  but  in  1764,  and  during  the  last  weeks 
of  1764  dined  wdth  them  every  Thursday,  as  is  w'ritten  in 
Mrs.  Piozzi’s  anecdotes.  In  the  second  place.  Goldsmith 
published  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  not  in  1761,  but  in  1766. 
Mrs.  Thrale  does  not  pretend  to  remember  the  precise  date 
of  the  summons  which  called  Johnson  from  her  table  to  the 
help  of  his  friend.  She  says  only  that  it  was  near  the  be- 
ginning of  her  acquaintance  with  Johnson,  and  certainly 
not  later  than  1766.  Her  accuracy  is  therefore  completely 
vindicated.  It  was  probably  after  one  of  her  Thursday 
dinners  in  1764  that  the  celebrated  scene  of  the  landlady, 
the  sheriff’s  officer,  and  the  bottle  of  Madeira,  took  place,  f 

* A defence  of  this  blunder  was  attempted.  That  the  celebrated  chapters  in 
which  Gibbon  has  traced  the  progress  of  Mahommedanism  were  not  written  in 
1776  could  not  be  denied.  But  it  was  confidently  asserted  that  his  partiality  to 
Mahommedanism  appeared  in  his  first  volume.  This  assertion  is  untrue.  No 
passage  which  can  by  any  art  be  construed  into  the  faintest  indication  of  the 
faintest  partiality  for  Mahommedanism  has  ever  been  quoted  or  ever  will  be 
quoted  from  the  first  volume  of  the  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire. 

To  what  then,  it  has  been  asked,  could  Johnson  allude?  Possibly  to  some 
anecdote  or  some  conversation  of  which  all  trace  is  lost.  One  conjecture  may 
bo  offered,  though  with  diflSdence.  Gibbon  tells  us  in  his  memoirs,  that  at  Ox- 
ford he  took  a fancy  for  studying  Arabic,  and  was  prevented  from  doing  so  by 
the  remonstrances  of  his  tutor.  Soon  after  this,  the  young  man  fell  in  with  Bos- 
Buet’s  controversial  writings,  and  was  speedily  converted  by  them  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith.  The  apostasy  of  a gentleman  commoner  would  of  course  be  for 
n time  the  chief  subject  of  conversation  in  the  common  room  of  Magdalene. 
His  whim  about  Arabic  learning  would  naturally  be  mentioned,  and  would  give 
occasion  to  some  jokes  about  the  probability  of  his  turning  Mussulman.  If 
Buch  jokes  were  made,  Johnson,  who  frequently  visited  Oxford,  was  very  likely 
to  hear  of  them.  f V.  409. 

I This  paragraph  has  been  altered ; and  a slight  inaccuracy  immaterial  to  th« 
aiguiieut.  has  been  remoyed 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


647 


The  very  page  which  contains  this  monstrous  blunder, 
contains  another  blunder,  if  possible,  more  monstrous  still. 
Sir  Joseph  Mawbey,  a foolish  member  of  Parliament,  at 
whose  speeches  and  pig-styes  the  wits  of  Brookes’s  w 3re, 
fifty  years  ago,  in  the  habit  of  laughing  most  unmercifully, 
stated,  on  the  authority  of  Garrick,  that  Johnson,  while  sit- 
ting in  a coffee-house  at  Oxford,  about  the  time  of  his  doc* 
tor’s  degree,  used  some  contemptuous  expressions  respect- 
ing Home’s  play  and  Macpherson’s  Ossian.  “ Many  men,’ 
lie  said,  “many  women,  and  many  children,  might  ha\e 
written  Douglas.”  Mr.  Croker  conceives  that  he  has  de- 
tected an  inaccuracy,  and  glories  over  poor  Sir  Joseph  in  a 
most  characteristic  manner.  “I  have  quoted  his  anecdote 
solely  with  the  view  of  showing  to  how  little  credit  hearsay 
anecdotes  are  in  general  entitled.  Here  is  a story  published 
by  Sir  Joseph  Mawbey,  a member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  a person  every  way  worthy  of  credit,  who  says 
lie  had  it  from  Garrick.  Now  mark : Johnson’s  visit  to 
Oxford,  about  the  time  of  his  doctor’s  degree,  was  in  1754, 
the  first  time  he  had  been  there  since  he  left  the  university. 
But  Douglas  was  not  acted  till  1756,  and  Ossian  not  pub- 
lished till  1760.  All,  therefore,  that  is  new  in  Sir  Joseph 
Mawbey’s  story  is  false.”  * Assuredly  we  need  not  go  far 
to  find  ample  proof  that  a member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons may  commit  a very  gross  error.  Now  mark,  say  we, 
in  the  language  of  Mr.  Croker.  The  fact  is,  that  Johnson 
took  his  Master’s  degree  in  1754  f and  his  Doctor’s  degree 
in  1775.  t In  the  spring  of  1776,  § he  paid  a visit  to  Oxford, 
and  at  this  visit  a conversation  respecting  the  works  of 
Home  and  Macpherson  might  have  taken  place,  and,  in  all 
probability,  did  take  place.  The  only  real  objection  to  the 
story  Mr.  Croker  has  missed.  Boswell  states,  apparently 
on  the  best  authority,  that  as  early  at  least  as  the  year  1763, 
Johnson,  in  conversation  with  Blair,  used  the  same  expres- 
sions respecting  Ossian,  which  Sir  Joseph  represents  him  as 
having  used  respecting  Douglas.  ||  Sir  Joseph  or  Garrick, 
confounded,  we  suspect,  the  two  stories.  But  their  error 
is  venial,  compared  with  that  of  Mr.  Croker. 

We  will  not  multiply  instances  of  this  scandalous  inaccu- 
racy. It  is  clear  that  a writer  who,  even  when  warned  by  the 
text  on  which  he  is  commenting,  falls  into  such  mistakes  as 
these,  is  entitled  to  no  confidence  whatever.  Mr.  Croker 
has  committed  an  error  of  five  years  with  respect  to  th« 
•V.409.  1 1.262.  $ 111,206  §111.326.  i 1. 405 


(348 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


publication  of  Goldsmith’s  novel,  an  error  of  twelve  years 
with  respect  to  the  publication  of  part  of  Gibbon’s  ITistorj^, 
an  error  of  twenty-one  years  with  respect  to  an  event  in 
Johnson’s  life  so  important  as  the  taking  of  the  doctoral  de- 
gree. Two  of  these  three  errors  he  has  committed,  while 
ostentatiously  displaying  his  own  accuracy,  and  correcting 
what  he  represents  as  the  loose  assertions  of  others.  How 
can  his  readers  take  on  trust  his  statements  concerning  the 
births,  marriages,  divorces,  and  deaths  of  a crowd  of  peo-  ' 
pie,  whose  names  are  scarcely  known  to  this  generation  ? 

It  is  not  likely  that  a person  who  is  ignorant  of  what  almost 
everybody  knows  can  know  that  of  which  almost  everybody 
is  ignorant.  We  did  not  open  this  book  with  any  wish 
to  find  blemishes  in  it.  We  have  made  no  curious  re- 
searches. The  work  itself,  and  a very  common  knowledge 
of  literary  and  political  history,  have  enabled  us  to  detect  j 
the  mistakes  which  we  have  pointed  out,  and  many  other  j 
mistakes  of  the  same  kind.  We  must  say,  and  we  say  it  I 
with  regret,  that  we  do  not  consider  the  authority  of  Mr.  | 
Croker,  unsupported  by  other  evidence,  as  sufficient  to  I 
justify  any  writer  who  may  follow  him  in  relating  a single  j 
anecdote  or  in  assigning  a date  to  a single  event.  | 

Mr.  Croker  shows  almost  as  much  ignorance  and  heed- 
lessness  in  his  criticisms  as  in  his  statements  concerning  w 
facts,  ilr.  Johnson  said,  very  reasonably  as  it  appears  to  | 
us,  that  some  of  the  satires  of  Juvenal  are  too  gross  for  im-  | 
itation.  Mr.  Croker,  who,  by  the  way,  is  angry  with  John-  1 
son  for  defending  Prior’s  tales  against  the  charge  of  inde-  | 
cency,  resents  this  aspersion  on  Juvenal,  and  indeed  refuses  f 
to  believe  that  the  doctor  can  have  said  anything  so  absurd.  | 
“ He  probably  said — some  passages  of  them — for  there  are  | 
none  of  Juvenal’s  satires  to  which  the  same  objection  may  j 
be  made  as  to  one  of  Horace’s,  that  it  is  altogether  gross  i 
and  licentious.*  Surely  Mr.  Croker  can  never  have  read  ] 
the  second  and  ninth  satires  of  Juvenal.  ; 

Indeed  the  decisions  of  this  editor  on  points  of  classical 
learning,  though  pronounced  in  a very  authoritative  tone, 
are  generally  such  that,  if  a schoolboy  under  our  care  were  ’ 
to  utter  them  our  soul  assuredly  should  not  spare  for  his 
crying.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  a gentleman  who  has  been  en- 
gaged during  near  thirty  years  in  political  life  that  he  has 
forgotten  his  Greek  and  Latin.  But  he  becomes  justly 
ridiculous  if,  when  no  longer  able  to  construe  a plain  sen 

1.167, 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


649 


tencc,  he  affects  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  most  delicate 
questions  of  style  and  metre.  From  one  blunder,  a blunder 
which  no  good  scholar  would  have  made,  Mr.  Croker  was 
sayed,  as  he  informs  us,  by  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who  quoted  a 
passage  exactly  in  point  from  Horace.  We  heartily  wish 
that  Sir  Robert,  whose  classical  attainments  are  well  known, 
had  been  more  frequently  consulted.  Unhappily  he  was 
not  always  at  his  friend’s  elbow;  and  we  have  therefore  a 
rich  abundance  of  the  strangest  errors.  Boswell  has  pre- 
served a poor  epigram  by  Johnson,  inscribed  “Ad  Lairara 
j>arituram.”  Mr.  Croker  censures  the  poet  for  applying 
the  word  puella  to  a lady  in  Laura’s  situation,  and  for 
talking  of  the  beauty  of  Lucina.  “ Lucina,”  he  says,  “ was 
never  famed  for  her  beauty.”  * If  Sir  Robert  Peel  had 
seen  this  note,  he  probably  would  have  again  refuted  Mr. 
Croker’s  criticisms  by  an  appeal  to  Horace.  In  the  secular 
ode,  Lucina  is  used  as  one  of  the  names  of  Diana,  and  the 
beauty  of  Diana  is  extolled  by  all  the  most  orthodox  doc- 
tors of  the  ancient  mythology,  from  Homer  in  his  Odyssey, 
to  Claudian  in  his  Rape  of  Proserpine.  In  another  ode, 
Horace  describes  Diana  as  the  goddess  who  assists  the 
“ laborantes  utero  puellas.”  But  we  are  ashamed  to  detain 
our  readers  with  this  fourth-form  learning. 

Boswell  found,  in  his  tour  to  the  Hebrides,  an  inscrip- 
tion written  by  a Scotch  minister.  It  runs  thus  : “ Joannes 
Macleod,  &c.,  gentis  sua3  Philarchus,  &c.,  Florae  Macdonald 
matrimoniali  vinculo  conjugatus  turrem  hanc  Beganodun- 
cnsem  proaevorum  habitaculum  longe  vetustissimum,  diu 
penitus  labefactatam,  anno  aerae  vulgaris  mdclxxxvi.  in- 
stauravit.” — “ The  minister,”  says  Mr.  Croker,  “ seems  to 
have  been  no  contemptible  Latinist.  Is  not  Philarchus  a 
very  happy  term  to  express  the  paternal  and  kindly  au- 
thority of  the  head  of  a clan?t  The  composition  of  this 
eminent  Latinist,  short  as  it  is,  contains  several  words  that 
x e juso  as  much  Coptic  as  Latin,  to  say  nothing  of  the  incor- 
rect stiucture  of  the  sentence.  The  word  Philarchus,  even 
if  it  were  a happy  term  expressing  a paternal  and  kindly 
authority,  would  prove  nothing  for  the  minister’s  Latin, 
whatever  it  might  prove  for  his  Greek.  But  it  is  clear  that 
the  word  Philarchus  means,  not  a man  who  rules  by  love, 
but  a man  who  loves  rule.  The  Attic  writers  of  the  best 
age  used  thv?  word  <pUap^oq  in  the  sense  which  we  assign  to 
it.  Would  Mr.  Croker  translate  a man  who  ac« 

tU.  458* 


650 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


quires  wisdom  by  means  of  love,  or  (ptXoxepi^q^  a man  who 
makes  money  by  means  of  love  ? In  fact,  it  requires  no 
Bentley  or  Casaubon  to  perceive,  that  Pliilarchus  is  merely 
a false  spelling  for  Phylarchus,  the  chief  of  a tribe. 

Mr.  Croker  has  favored  us  with  some  Greek  of  his  own. 
“At  the  altar,”  says  Dr.  Johnson,  “I  recommended  my 
“ These  letters,”  says  the  editor,  “ (which  Dr.  Strahan 
ec.ems  not  to  have  understood)  probably  mean  i%rjToi  <ptXo(y 
departed  friends^^  Johnson  was  not  a first-rate  Greek 
scholar;  but  he  knew  more  Greek  than  most  boys  when  they 
leave  school ; and  no  schoolboy  could  venture  to  use  the 
word  {^v7]T()t  in  the  sense  which  Mr.  Croker  ascribes  to  it 
without  imminent  danger  of  a flogging. 

Mr.  Croker  has  also  given  us  a specimen  of  his  skill  in 
translating  Latin.  Johnson  wrote  a note  in  which  he  con- 
sulted his  friend  Dr.  Lawrence  on  the  propriety  of  losing 
some  blood.  The  note  contained  these  words  : — “ Si  per  te 
licet,  imperatur  nuncio  Ilolderum  ad  me  deducere.”  John- 
son should  rather  have  written  “ imperatum  est.”  But  thv 
meaning  of  the  words  is  perfectly  clear.  “ If  you  say  yes, 
the  messenger  has  orders  to  bring  Holder  to  me.”  Mr. 
Croker  translates  the  words  as  follows  : “ If  you  consent, 
pray  tell  the  messenger  to  bring  Holder  to  me.”  | If  Mr. 
Croker  is  resolved  to  v^rite  on  points  of  classical  learning, 
we  would  advise  him  to  begin  by  giving  an  hour  every 
morning  to  our  old  friend  Corderius. 

Indeed  we  cannot  open  any  volume  of  this  work  in  any 
place,  and  turn  it  over  for  two  minutes  in  any  direction, 
without  lighting  on  a blunder.  Johnson,  in  his  Life  of 
Tickell,  stated  that  the  poem  entitled  The  Royal  Progress, 
tvhicli  appears  in  the  last  volume  of  the  Spectator,  w^‘ls 
written  on  the  accession  of  George  I.  The  word  “ arrival  ” 
was  afterwards  substituted  for  “accession.”  “The  reader 
will  observe,”  says  Mr.  Croker,  “ that  the  Whig  term  acces- 
sion^ which  might  imply  legality,  was  altered  into  a state- 
ment of  the  simple  fact  of  King  George’s  arrival^  $ Now 
Johnson,  though  a bigoted  Tory,  was  not  quite  such  a fool 
as  Mr.  Croker  here  represents  him  to  be.  In  the  Life  of 

♦rv.  251.  An  attempt  was  made  to  vindicate  this  blunder  by  quoting  & 
grossly  corrupt  passage  from  the  'I/cenSe?  of  Euripides  : 

/3a^i  Kal  avTiaaov  yovartov,  em,  \elpa  ^aXovaa, 

T€Kvtav  re  ^vartav  KOfxiaai  Sefia^. 

The  true  reading,  as  every  scholar  knows,  is,  t4kp(hv  re^veuTtav  xo/AcVai 
Indeed  without  this  emendation  it  would  not  be  easy  to  construe  the  wordti 
even  if  Avartov  could  bear  the  meaning  which  Mr,  Croker  assigns  to  U. 
tv,  17,  tIV.  m 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


651 


Granville,  Lord  Lansdowne,  which  stands  a very  few  pages 
from  the  Life  of  Tickell,  mention  is  made  of  the  accession 
of  Anne,  and  of  the  accession  of  George  I.  The  word 
arrival  was  used  in  the  Life  of  Tickell  for  the  simplest  of 
reasons.  It  was  used  because  the  subject  of  the  poem  called 
The  Royal  Progress  was  the  arrival  of  the  king,  and  not  his 
accession,  which  took  place  near  two  months  before  his 
aixival. 

The  editor’s  want  of  perspicacity  is  indeed  very  amus- 
ing. He  is  perpetually  telling  us  that  he  cannot  understand 
something  in  tlic  text  which  is  plain  as  language  can  make 
It.  “Mattaire,”  said  Dr.  Johnson,  ‘‘wrote  Latin  verses 
from  time  to  time,  and  published  a set  in  his  old  age,  which 
he  called  Senilia^  in  which  he  shows  so  little  learning  or 
taste  in  writing,  as  to  make  Carteret  a dactyl.”  * Hereupon 
we  have  this  note : “The  editor  does  not  understand  this 
objection,  nor  the  following  observation.”  The  following 
observation,  which  Mr.  Croker  cannot  understand,  is  simply 
this  : “ In  matters  of  genealogy,”  says  Johnson,  “ it  is  neces- 
sary to  give  the  bare  names  as  they  are.  But  in  poetry 
and  in  prose  of  any  elegance  in  the  writing,  they  require  to 
have  inflection  given  to  them.”  If  Mr.  Croker  had  told 
Johnson  that  this  was  unintelligible,  the  doctor  would  prob- 
ably have  replied,  as  he  replied  on  another  occasion,  “ I 
have  found  you  a reason,  sir ; I am  not  bound  to  find  you 
an  understanding.”  Everybody  who  knows  any  thing  about 
Latinity  knows  that,  in  genealogical  tables,  Joannes  Baro 
de  Carteret,  or  Vicecomes  de  Carteret,  may  be  tolerated, 
but  that  in  compositions  which  pretend  to  elegance,  Carte- 
retus,  or  some  other  form  which  admits  of  inflection,  ought 
to  be  used. 

All  our  readers  have  doubtless  seen  the  two  distichs  of 
Sir  William  Jones,  respecting  the  division  of  the  time  of  a 
lawyer.  One  of  the  distichs  is  translated  from  some  old 
Latin  lines ; the  other  is  original.  The  former  runs  thus ; 

“ Six  hours  to  sleep,  to  law’s  grave  study  six, 

Four  spend  in  prayer,  the  rest  on  nature  fix.*' 

Rather,”  says  Sir  William  Jones, 

“ Six  hours  to  law,  to  soothing  slumbers  seven. 

Ten  to  the  world  allot,  and  all  to  heaven.*’ 

The  second  couplet  puzzles  Mr.  Croker  strangely.  “ Sir 
William,”  says  he,  “ has  shortened  his  day  to  twenty-three 

•IV.  885, 


652  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

hours,  and  the  general  advice  of  ‘ all  to  heaven,’  destroys  ihe» 
peculiar  appropriation  of  a certain  period  to  religious  exer- 
cises.” * Now,  we  did  not  think  that  it  was  in  human  dul- 
ness  to  miss  the  meaning  of  the  lines  so  completely.  Sir 
William  distributes  twenty-three  hours  among  various  em- 
ployments. One  hour  is  thus  left  for  devotion.  The  reader 
expects  that  the  verse  will  end  with  “ and  one  to  heaven.” 
The  whole  point  of  the  lines  consists  in  the  unexpected 
substitution  of  “all”  for  “one.”  The  conceit  is  wretched 
enough ; but  it  is  perfe<*tly  intelligible,  and  never,  we  will 
venture  to  say,  perplexed  man,  woman,  or  child  before. 

Poor  Tom  Davies,  after  failing  in  business,  tried  to  live 
by  his  pen.  Johnson  called  him  “ an  author  generated  by 
the  corruption  of  a bookseller.”  This  is  a very  obvious,  and 
even  a commonplace  allusion  to  the  famous  dogma  of  the 
old  physiologists.  Dryden  made  a similar  allusion  to  that 
dogma  before  Johnson  was  born.  Mr.  Croker,  however,  is 
unable  to  understand  what  the  doctor  meant.  “ The  ex- 
pression,” he  says,  “ seems  not  quite  clear.”  And  he  pro- 
ceeds to  talk  about  the  generation  of  insects,  about  bursting 
into  gaudier  life,  and  Heaven  knows  what,  t 

There  is  still  a stranger  instance  of  the  editor’s  talent  for 
finding  out  difficulty  in  what  is  perfectly  plain.  “No  man,” 
said  Johnson,  “ can  now  be  made  a bishop  for  his  learning 
and  piety.”  “ From  this  too  just  observation,”  says  Boswell, 
“ there  are  some  eminent  exceptions.”  Mr.  Croker  is  puz- 
zled by  Boswell’s  very  natural  and  simple  language.  “ That 
a general  observation  should  be  pronounced  toojust^  by  the 
very  person  who  admits  that  it  is  not  universally  i ust,  is  not 
a little  odd.”t 

A very  large  proportion  of  the  two  thousand  five  hundred 
notes  which  the  editor  boasts  of  having  added  to  those  of  Bos- 
well and  Malone  consists  of  the  flattest  and  poorest  reflections, 
reflf'ctions  such  as  the  least  intelligent  reader  is  quite  com- 
petent to  make  for  himself,  and  such  as  no  intelligent  readei 
would  think  it  worth  while  to  utter  aloud.  They  remind 
us  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  those  profound  and  interesting 
annotations  which  are  penciled  by  sempstresses  and  apothe- 
caries’ boys  on  the  dog-eared  margins  of  novels  borrowed 
from  circulating  libraries ; “ How  beautiful ! ” “ Cursed 

prosy  ! ” “I  don’t  like  Sir  Reginald  Malcolm  at  all.”  “ I 
think  Pelham  is  a sad  dandy.”  Mr.  Croker  is  perpetually 
stopping  us  in  our  progress  through  the  most  delightful 

• V.  233.  r IV.  323.  $ HI.  m 


SAMU^iL  JOHKSON. 


653 


narrative  in  the  language,  to  observe  that  really  Dr.  John 
son  was  very  rude,  that  he  talked  more  for  victory  than  for 
truth,  that  his  taste  for  port  wine  with  capillaire  in  it  was 
very  odd,  that  Boswell  was  impertiment,  that  it  was  foolish 
in  Mrs.  Thrale  to  marry  the  music-master ; and  so  forth. 

We  cannot  speak  more  favorably  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  notes  are  written  than  of  the  matter  of  which  they  consist. 
We  find  in  every  page  words  used  in  wrong  senses,  and  con- 
structions which  violate  the  plainest  rules  of  grammar.  We 
have  the  vulgarism  of  ‘‘mutual  friend,”  for  “common 
friend.”  We  have  “fallacy”  used  as  synonymous  with 
“falsehood.”  We  have  many  such  inextricable  labyrinths 
of  pronouns  as  that  which  follows  : “ Lord  Erskine  was  fond 
of  this  anecdote  ; he  told  it  to  the  editor  the  first  time  that 
he  had  the  honor  of  being  in  his  company.”  Lastly,  we  have 
a plentiful  supply  of  sentences  resembling  those  which  Ave 
subjoin.  “ Markland,  ?(?Ao,with  Jortin  and  Thirlby,  Johnson 
calls  three  contemporaries  of  great  eminence.”"^  “War- 
burton  himself  did  not  feel,  as  Mr.  BosAvell  Avas  disposed  to 
think  he  did,  kindly  or  gratefully  of  Johnson^  t “ It  was 
him  that  Horace  Walpole  called  a man  who  never  made 
a bad  figure  but  as  an  author.”  t One  or  tAVO  of  these 
solecisms  should  perhaps  be  attributed  to  the  printer,  who 
has  certainly  done  his  best  to  fill  both  the  text  and  the  notes 
Avith  all  sorts  of  blunders.  In  truth,  he  and  the  editor  haA^e 
between  them  made  the  book  so  bad,  that  avc  do  not  well 
see  hoAV  it  could  have  been  AAWse. 

When  Ave  turn  from  the  commentary  of  Mr.  Croker  to 
the  Avork  of  our  old  friend  BosAvell,  Ave  find  it  not  only 
worse  printed  than  in  any  other  edition  with  which  we  are 
acquamted,  but  mangled  in  the  most  wanton  manner. 
MucI  that  Boswell  inserted  in  his  narrative  is,  without  the 
shad  jw  of  a reason,  degraded  to  the  appendix.  The  editor 
has  also  taken  upon  himself  to  alter  or  omit  passages  which 
he  considers  as  indecorous.  This  prudery  is  quite  unintel- 
ligible to  us.  There  is  nothing  immoral  in  Boswell’s  book, 
nothing  which  tends  to  inflame  the  passions.  He  some- 
times uses  plain  words.  But  if  this  be  a taint  Avhich  requires 
expurgation,  it  Avould  bo  desirable  to  begin  by  expurgating 
the  morning  and  OA^ening  lessons.  The  delicate  office  Avhich 
Mr.  Croker  has  undertaken  he  has  performed  in  the  most 
capricious  manner.  One  strong,  old-fashioned,  English 
word,  familiar  to  all  who  read  their  Bibles,  is  changed  mr  a 
• IV.  377.  t rv.  415.  t n.  461 


()54  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  avrtttngs. 

softer  synonyine  in  some  j^assages,  aiul  suffered  to  stand 
unaltered  in  others.  In  one  place  a faint  allusion  made  by 
Johnson  to  an  indelicate  subject,  an  allusion  so  faint  that, 
till  Mr.  Croker’s  note  pointed  it  out  to  us,  we  had  never 
noticed  it,  and  of  which  we  are  quite  sure  that  the  meaning 
would  never  be  discovered  by  any  of  those  for  whose  sake 
books  are  expurgated,  is  altogether  omitted.  In  another 
p;lace,  a coarse  and  stupid  jest  of  Dr.  Taylor  on  tlie  same 
subject,  expressed  in  the  broadest  language,  almost  the  only 
passage,  as  far  as  we  remember,  in  all  Boswell’s  book,  which 
V e should  have  been  inclined  to  leave  out,  is  suffered  to  i 
remain. 

We  complain,  however,  much  more  of  the  additions  than  \ 
of  the  omissions.  We  have  half  of  Mrs.  Thrale’s  book,  : 
scraps  of  Mr.  Tyers,  scraps  of  Mr.  Mur])hy,  scraps  of  Mr. 
Cradock,  long  prosings  of  Sir  John  Hawkins,  and  connecting 
observations  by  Mr.  Croker  himself,  inserted  into  the  midst  of 
Boswell’s  text.  To  this  practice  we  most  decidedly  object. 

An  editor  might  as  well  publish  Thucydides  with  extracts  ^ 
from  Diodorus  interspersed,  or  incorporate  the  Lives  of  Sue- 
tonius with  the  History  and  Annals  of  Tacitus.  Mr.  Croker 
tells  us,  indeed,  that  he  has  done  only  what  Boswell  wished  ; 

to  do,  and  was  prevented  from  doing  by  the  low  of  copy-  i 

right.  We  doubt  this  greatly.  Boswell  has  studiously  ab-  5 
stained  from  availing  himself  of  the  information  given  by  his  ^ 
rivals,  on  many  occasions  on  which  he  might  have  cited  them 
v/ithout  subjecting  himself  to  the  charge  of  piracy.  Mr. 
Croker  has  himself,  on  one  occasion,  remarked  very  justly 
that  Boswell  was  unwilling  to  owe  any  obligation  to  Haw- 
kins. But,  be  this  as  it  may,  if  Boswell  had  quoted  from 
Sir  John  and  from  Mrs.  Thrale,  he  would  have  been  guided 
by  his  own  taste  and  judgment  in  selecting  his  quotations. 

On  what  Boswell  quoted  he  would  have  commented  with 
perfect  freedom  ; and  the  borrowed  passages,  so  selected,  and 
accompanied  by  such  comments,  would  have  become  origi 
nal.  They  would  have  dove-tailed  into  the  work.  No  hitch, 
no  crease  would  have  been  discernible.  The  whole  would 
appear  one  and  indivisible, 

“ Ut  per  Ijeve  severos 
Effundat  junctura  ungues." 

This  is  not  the  case  wdth  Mr.  Croker’s  insertions.  They 
are  not  chosen  as  Boswell  would  have  chosen  them.  They 
are  not  introduced  as  Boswell  would  have  introduced  them 
They  differ  from  the  quotations  scattered  through  the  original 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


G55 


Life  of  Johnson,  as  a withered  bough  stuck  in  tlie  ground 
differs  from  a tree  skilfully  transplanted  with  all  its  life 
about  it. 

Not  only  do  these  anecdotes  disfigure  B(5»well’s  book; 
they  are  themselves  disfigured  by  being  inserted  in  his  book. 
The  charm ^)f  Mrs.  Thrale’s  little  volume  is  utterly  destroyed. 
The  feminine  quickness  of  observation,  the  feminine  softness 
of  heart,  the  colloquial  incorrectness  and  vivacity  of  style, 
the  little  amusing  airs  of  a half-learned  lady,  the  delightful 
garrulity,  the  “ dear  Doctor  Johnson,’’  the  “ it  was  sc 
comical,”  all  disappear  in  Mr.  Croker’s  quotations.  Tlic 
lady  ceases  to  speak  in  the  first  person  ; and  her  anecdotes, 
in  the  process  of  transfusion,  become  as  flat  as  Champagne 
in  decanters,  or  Herodotus  in  Beloe’s  version.  Sir  John 
Hawkins,  it  is  true,  loses  nothing;  and  for  the  best  of 
reasons.  Sir  John  had  nothing  to  lose. 

The  course  Avhich  Mr.  Croker  ought  to  have  taken  is 
quite  clear.  He  should  have  reprinted  Boswell’s  narrative 
precisely  as  Boswell  wrote  it  ; and  in  the  notes  or  the 
appendix  he  should  have  placed  any  anecdotes  which  he 
might  have  thought  it  advisable  to  quote  from  other  writers. 
This  would  have  been  a much  more  convenient  course  for 
the  reader,  who  has  now  constantly  to  keep  liis  eye  on  the 
margin  in  order  to  see  whether  he  is  perusing  Boswell,  Mrs. 
Thrale,  Murphy,  Hawkins,  Tyers,  Cradock,  or  Mr.  Croker. 
We  greatly  doubt  whether  even  the  Tour  to  the  Hebrides 
ought  to  have  been  inserted  in  the  midst  of  the  Life.  There 
is  one  marked  distinction  between  the  two  works.  Most  of 
the  Tour  was  seen  by  Johnson  in  manuscript.  It  does  not 
api'jear  that  he  ever  saw  any  part  of  the  Life. 

We  love,  we  own,  to  read  the  great  productions  of  the 
human  mind  as  they  were  written.  We  have  this  feeling 
even  about  scientific  treatises ; though  we  know  that  the 
sciences  are  always  in  a state  of  progression,  and  that  the 
alterations  made  by  a modern  editor  in  an  old  book  on  any 
branch  of  natural  or  political  philosophy  are  likely  to  be  im- 
provements. Some  errors  have  been  detected  by  writers  of 
this  generation  in  the  speculations  of  Adam  Smith.  A short 
cut  has  been  made  to  much  knowledge  at  which  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  arrived  through  arduous  and  circuitous  paths.  Yet 
we  still  look  with  peculiar  veneration  on  the  Wealth  of  Na- 
tions and  on  the  Principia,  and  should  regret  to  see  either 
of  those  great  works  garbled  even  by  the  ablest  hands.  But 
in  works  which  owe  much  of  their  interest  to  the  character 


65i3 


Macaulay's  miscellaneous  wkitings. 


and  situation  of  the  writers  the  case  is  infinitely  stronger. 
W1  .at  man  of  taste  and  feeling  can  endure  rifacimenti^  har- 
monies, abridgments,  expurgated  editions  ? Wlio  ever  reads 
a stage-copy  of  a])lay  when  lie  can  procure  the  original? 
Who  ever  cut  open  Mrs.  Siddon’s  Milton  ? Who  ever  got 
through  ten  pages  of  Mr.  Gilpin’s  translation  of  John  Bun- 
yan’s  Pilgrim  into  modern  English  ? Who  would  lose,  in  the 
confusion  of  a Diatessaron,  the  peculiar  charm  which  be- 
longs to  the  narrative  of  the  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved  ? 
The  feeling  of  a reader  who  has  become  intimate  with  any 
great  original  work  is  that  which  Adam  expressed  towards 
his  bride : 

‘ Should  God  create  another  Eve,  and  I 

Another  rib  afford,  yet  loss  of  thee 

Would  never  from  mj"  heart.’’ 

No  substitute,  however  exquisitely  formed,  will  fill  the  void 
left  by  the  original.  The  second  beauty  may  be  equal  or 
superior  to  the  first ; but  still  it  is  not  she. 

The  reasons  which  Mr.  Croker  has  given  for  incorpora- 
ting passages  from  Sir  John  Hawkins  and  Mrs.  Thrale  with 
the  narrative  of  Boswell  would  vindicate  the  adulteration 
of  half  the  classical  works  in  the  language.  If  Pepys’s 
Diary  and  Mrs.  Hutchinson’s  Memoirs  had  been  published  a 
hundred  years  ago,  no  human  being  can  doubt  that  Mr. 
Hume  would  have  made  great  use  of  those  books  in  his 
History  of  England.  But  Avould  it,  on  that  account,  be 
judicious  in  a writer  of  our  times  to  j^iiblish  an  edition  of 
Hume’s  History  of  England,  in  which  large  extracts  from 
Pepys  and  Mrs.  Hutchinson  should  be  incorporated  with 
the  original  text  ? Surely  not.  Hume’s  history,  be  its 
faults  what  they  may,  is  now  one  great  entire  work,  the 
production  of  one  vigorous  mind,  working  on  such  materials 
as  were  within  its  reach.  Additions  made  by  another  hand 
may  supply  a particular  deficiency,  but  would  grievously 
injure  the  general  effect.  With  Boswell’s  book  tlie  case  is 
stronger.  There  is  scarcely,  in  the  wdiole  compass  of  litera- 
ture, a book  which  bears  inteiq3olation  so  ill.  We  know  no 
production  of  the  human  mind  which  has  so  much  of  what 
may  be  called  the  race,  so  much  of  the  peculiar  flavor  of  the 
soil  from  which  it  sprang.  The  work  could  never  have 
been  written  if  the  writer  had  not  been  precisely  what  he 
was.  His  character  is  displayed  in  every  page,  and  this 
display  of  character  gives  a delightful  interest  to  many  pas* 
sages  which  have  no  otheir  interests 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


657 


The  Life  of  Johnson  is  assuredly  a great,  a very  great 
work.  Homer  is  not  more  decidedly  the  first  of  heroic 
poets,  Shakespeare  is  not  more  decidedly  the  first  of 
dramatists,  Demosthenes  is  not  more  decidedly  the  first  of 
orators,  than  Boswell  is  the  first  of  biographers.  He  has 
no  second.  He  has  distanced  all  his  competitors  so 
decidedly  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  place  them.  Eclipse 
is  first,  and  the  rest  nowhere. 

We  are  not  sure  that  there  is  in  the  whole  history  of  the 
human  intellect  so  strange  a phaenomenon  as  this  book. 
Many  of  the  greatest  men  that  ever  lived  have  written  biog- 
raphy. Boswell  was  one  of  the  smallest  men  that  ever  lived, 
and  he  has  beaten  them  all.  He  was,  if  we  are  to  give  any 
credit  to  his  own  account  or  to  the  united  testimony  of  all 
who  knew  him,,  a man  of  the  meanest  and  feeblest  intellect, 
Johnson  described  him  as  a fellow  who  had  missed  his  only 
chance  of  immortality  by  not  having  been  alive  when  the 
Dunciad  was  written.  Beauclerk  used  his  name  as  a pro- 
\ erbial  expression  for  a bore.  He  was  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  whole  of  that  brilliant  society  which  has  owed  to 
him  the  greater  part  of  its  fame.  He  was  always  laying 
himself  at  the  feet  of  some  eminent  man,  and  begging  to  be 
s|)it  upon  and  trampled  upon.  Pie  was  always  earning  some 
ridiculous  nickname,  and  then  “ binding  it  as  a crown  unto 
him,”  not  merely  in  metaphor,  but  literally.  He  exhibited 
himself,  at  the  Shakspeare  Jubilee,  to  all  the  crowd  which 
filled  Stratford-on-Avon,  with  a placard  round  his  hat  bear- 
ing the  inscription  of  Corsica  Boswell.  In  his  Tour,  he 
proclaimed  to  all  the  world  that  at  Edinburgh  he  was  known 
by  the  appellation  of  Paoli  Boswell.  Servile  and  imperti- 
nent, shallow  and  pedantic,  a bigot  and  a sot,  bloated  with 
family  pride,  and  eternally  blustering  about  the  dignity  of 
a born  gentleman,  yet  stooping  to  be  a talebearer,  an  eaves- 
d ropper,  a common  butt  in  the  taverns  of  London,  so  curious 
to  know  everybody  who  was  talked  about,  that,  Tory  and 
High  Churchman  as  he  was,  he  manoeuvred,  we  have  been 
told,  for  an  introduction  to  Tom  Paine,  so  vain  of  the  most 
childish  distinctions,  that  when  he  had  been  to  court,  he 
drove  to  the  office  where  his  book  was  printing  without 
changing  his  clothes,  and  suminonod  all  the  printer’s  devils 
to  admire  his  new  ruffles  and  sword  ; such  was  this  man, 
and  such  he  was  content  and  proud  to  be.  Everything 
wnich  another  man  would  have  hidden,  everything  the  pub* 
Ucation  of  which  would  have  made  another  man  hang  him* 


(558  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

self,  was  matter  of  gay  and  clamorous  exultation  to  idswea^ 
and  diseased  mind.  What  silly  things  he  said,  what  bitter 
resorts  he  j)rovoked,  how  at  one  i)lace  he  was  troubled  with 
evil  presentiments  which  came  to  nothing,  how  at  another 
place,  on  waking  from  a drunken  doze,  he  read  tlie  prayer- 
book  and  took  a hair  of  the  dog  that  had  bitten  him,  how 
lie  went  to  see  men  hanged  and  came  away  maudlin,  how  he 
added  five  hundred  po  :inds  to  the  fortune  of  one  of  his  babies 
because  she  was  not  :;cared  at  Johason’s  ugly  face,  how  he 
was  frightened  out  of  his  wits  at  sea,  and  how  the  sailors 
(piictcd  him  as  they  would  liave  quieted  a child,  how  tipsy 
ho  was  at  Lady  Cork’s  one  evening  and  how  much  his  mer- 
rhuent  annoyed  the  ladies,  how  impertinent  he  was  to  the 
Duchess  of  Argyle,  and  with  Avhat  stately  contempt  she 
put  down  his  impertinence,  how  Colonel  Macleod  sneered 
to  his  face  at  his  impudent  obtrusiveness,  how  his  father 
and  the  very  wife  of  his  bosom  laughed  and  fretted  at  his 
fooleries ; all  these  things  he  proclaimed  to  all  the  world, 
as  if  they  had  been  subjects  for  pride  and  ostentatious  re- 
joicing. All  the  caprice  of  his  temper,  all  the  illusions  of  his 
vanity,  all  his  hypochondriac  whimsies,  all  his  castles  in  the 
air,  he  displayed  with  a cool  self-complacency,  a perfect  un- 
consciousness that  he  was  making  a fool  of  himself,  to  which 
it  is  impossible  to  find  a parallel  in  the  whole  history  of 
mankind.  He  has  used  many  people  ill,  but  assuredly  he 
has  used  nobody  so  ill  as  himself. 

That  such  a man  should  have  written  one  of  the  best 
books  in  the  world  is  strange  enough.  But  this  is  not  all. 
Many  persons  wlio  have  conducted  themselves  foolishly  in 
active  life,  and  whose  conversation  has  indicated  no  superior 
powers  of  mind,  have  left  us  valuable  works.  Goldsmith 
was  very  justly  described  by  one  of  his  contemporaries 
an  inspired  idiot,  and  by  another  as  a being 

“ Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talked  like  poor  Poll.’* 

La  Fontaine  was  in  society  a mere  simpleton.  His  blundere 
would  not  come  in  amiss  among  the  stories  of  Hierocles, 
But  these  men  attained  literary  eminence  in  spite  of 
their  weaknesses.  Boswell  attained  it  by  reason  of  his 
weaknesses.  If  he  had  not  been  a great  fool,  he  would  never 
have  been  a great  writer.  Without  all  the  qualities  which 
made  him  the  jest  and  the  torment  of  those  among  Avhom  he 
lived,  without  the  ofticiousness,  the  inquisitiveness,  the  ef- 
frontery, the  toad-eating,  the  insensibility  to  all  reproof,  he 


SAMUEL  JOnNSOK. 


G59 


never  could  have  produced  so  excellent  a book.  He  ''vas  a 
slave,  proud  of  liis  servitude,  a Paul  Piy,  convinced  that  liis 
own  curiosity  and  garrulity  were  virtues,  an  unsafe  companion 
who  never  scrupled  to  repay  the  most  libeird  hospitality 
by  the  basest  violation  of  confidence,  a man  without  delicacy, 
without  shame,  without  sense  enough  to  know  when  he  was 
hurting  the  feelings  of  others  or  when  he  was  exposing  him- 
self to  derision ; and  because  he  was  all  this,  he  has,  in  an 
important  department  of  literature,  immeasurably  surpassed 
such  writers  as  Tacitus,  Clarendon,  Alfieri,  and  his  own  idol 
Johnson. 

Of  the  talents  which  ordinarily  raise  men  to  eminence  as 
writers,  Boswell  had  absolutely  none.  There  is  not  in  all 
his  books  a single  remark  of  his  own  on  literature,  politics, 
religion,  or  society,  which  is  not  either  commonplace  or 
absurd.  His  dissertations  on  hereditaiy  gentility,  on  the 
slave-trade,  and  on  the  entailing  of  landed  estates,  may  servo 
as  examples.  To  say  that  these  passages  are  sophistical 
would  be  to  pay  them  an  extravagant  compliment.  They 
have  no  pretence  to  argument,  or  even  to  meaning.  He  has 
reported  innumerable  observations  made  by  himself  in  the 
course  of  conversation.  Of  those  observations  we  do  not 
remember  one  which  is  above  the  intellectual  capacity  of  a 
boy  of  fifteen.  He  has  printed  many  of  his  own  letters, 
and  in  these  letters  he  is  always  ranting  or  twaddling.  Lo- 
gic, eloquence,  wit,  taste,  all  those  things  which  are  generally 
considered  as  making  a book  valuable,  were  utterly  wanting 
to  him.  He  had,  indeed,  a quick  observation  and  a retentive 
memory.  These  qualities,  if  he  had  been  a man  of  sense 
and  virtue,  would  scarcely  of  themselves  have  suificed  to 
make  him  conspicuous  ; but,  because  he  was  a dunce,  a par- 
asite and  a coxcomb,  they  have  made  him  immortal. 

Those  parts  of  his  book  which,  considered  abstractedly, 
are  most  utterly  worthless,  are  delightful  when  we  read 
them  as  illustrations  of  the  character  of  the  writer.  Bad  in 
themselves,  they  are  good  dramatically,  like  the  nonsense  of 
Justice  Shallow,  the  clipped  English  of  Dr.  Cains,  or  the 
misplaced  consonants  of  Fluellen.  Of  all  confessors,  Boswell 
is  the  most  candid.  Other  men  who  have  pretended  to  lay 
open  their  own  hearts,  Rousseau,  for  example,  and  Lord 
Byron,  have  evidently  written  with  a constant  view  to  effect, 
and  are  to  be  then  most  distrusted  when  they  seem  to  be 
most  sincere.  There  is  scarcely  any  man  who  would  not 
rather  accuse  himself  of  great  crimes  and  of  dark  and  tenv 


^60  MACAU/.AY  S MlSCKLf  ANKOUfi  AVUlTlNGS. 

pestuoiis  passions  tlian  proclaim  all  liis  little  vanities  and 
wild  fancies,  it  woul<l  be  easier  to  lind  a jjcrson  who  would 
avow  actions  like  those  of  Caesar  Borgia  or  Danton,  than 
one  Avho  would  ])ublish  a day  dream  like  those  of  Alnaschar 
and  Malvolio.  Idiose  weaknesses  which  most  men  keep  cov* 
ered  up  in  the  most  secret  places  of  the  mind,  not  to  be 
disclosed  to  the  eye  of  friendship  or  of  love,  were  precisely 
the  weaknesses  which  Boswell  paraded  before  all  the  world. 
He  was  perfectly  frank,  because  the  weakness  of  his  under- 
standing and  the  tumult  of  his  spirits  prevented  him  from 
knowing  when  he  made  himself  ridiculous.  Ilis  book  re- 
sembles nothing  so  much  as  the  conversation  of  the  inmates 
of  the  Palace  of  Truth. 

His  fame  is  great ; and  it  will,  we  have  no  doubt,  bo 
lasting  ; but  it  is  fame  of  a peculiar  kind,  and  indeed  mar- 
vellously resembles  infamy.  We  remember  no  other  case  in 
which  the  world  has  made  so  great  a distinction  between  a 
book  and  its  author.  In  general,  the  book  and  the  author 
are  considered  as  one.  To  admire  the  book  is  to  admire  the 
author.  The  case  of  Boswell  is  an  exception,  we  think  the 
only  exception,  to  this  rule.  His  'work  is  universally  al-‘ 
lowed  to  be  interesting,  instructive,  eminently  original ; yet 
it  has  brought  him  nothing  but  contempt.  All  the  world 
reads  it;  all  the  world  delights  in  it ; yet  we  do  not  remem- 
ber ever  to  have  read  or  ever  to  have  heard  any  expression 
of  respect  and  admiration  for  the  man  to  whom  we  owe  so 
much  instruction  and  amusement.  While  edition  after  edition 
of  his  book  was  coming  forth,  his  son,  as  Mr.  Croker  tells 
us,  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  hated  to  hear  it  mentioned.  This 
feeling  was  natural  and  reasonable.  Sir  Alexander  saw  that, 
in  proportion  to  the  celebrity  of  the  work, was  the  degradation 
of  the  author.  The  very  editors  of  this  unfortunate  gentle- 
7uan’s  books  have  forgotten  their  allegiance,  and,  like  those 
Puritan  casuists  who  took  arms  by  the  authority  of  the  king 
against  his  person,  have  attacked  the  writer  while  doing  hom- 
age to  the  writings.  Mr.  Croker,  for  example,  has  published 
two  thousand  five  hundred  notes  on  the  Life  of  Johnson,  and 
yet  scarcely  ever  mentions  the  biographer  whose  performance 
he  has  taken  such  pains  to  illustrate  without  some  expression 
of  contempt. 

An  ill-natured  man  Boswell  certainly  was  not.  Yet  the 
malignity  of  the  most  malignant  satirist  could  scarcely  cut 
deeper  than  his  thoughtless  loquacity.  Having  himself  no 
Bensibility  to  derision  aiid  contempt,  he  took  it  for  granted 


8AMUJEL  jOtmSOK* 


661 


that  all  otliers  were  equally  callous.  He  Was  not  ashamed 
to  exhibit  himself  to  tlie  whole  world  as  a common  spy,  a 
common  tattler,  a humble  companion  without  the  excuse  of 
poverty,  and  to  tell  a hundred  stories  of  his  own  pertness 
and  folly,  and  of  the  insults  which  his  pertness  and  folly 
brought  upon  him.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  show  little 
discretion  in  cases  in  which  the  feelings  or  the  honor  of 
others  might  be  concerned.  No  man,  surely,  ever  published 
such  stories  respecting  persons  whom  he  professed  to  love 
and  rev^ere.  lie  would  infallibly  have  made  his  hero  as  com 
tcmptib.e  as  he  has  made  himself,  had  not  his  hero  really 
possessed  some  moral  and  intellectual  qualities  of  a very 
high  order.  The  best  proof  that  Johnson  was  really  an 
extraordinary  man  is  that  his  character,  instead  of  being 
degraded,  has,  on  the  whole,  been  decidedly  raised  by  a 
work  in  which  all  his  vices  and  weaknesses  are  exposed 
more  unsparingly  than  they  ever  were  exposed  by  Churchill 
or  by  Ken  rick. 

Johnson  grovvm  old,  Johnson  in  the  fulness  of  his  fame 
and  in  the  enjoyment  of  a competent  fortune,  is  better  known 
to  us  than  any  other  man  in  history.  Everything  about 
him,  his  coat,  his  wig,  his  figure,  his  face,  his  scrofula,  his  St. 
Vitus’s  dance,  his  rolling  walk,  his  blinking  eye,  the  outward 
signs  which  too  clearly  marked  his  approbation  of  his  dinner, 
his  insatiable  appetite  for  fish-sauce  and  veal-pie  with  plums, 
his  inextinguishable  thirst  for  tea,  his  trick  of  touching  the 
posts  as  he  walked,  his  mysterious  practice  of  treasuring  up 
scraps  of  orange-peel,  his  morning  slumbers,  his  midnight 
disputations,  his  contortions,  his  mutterings,  his  gruntings, 
his  puffings,  his  vigorous,  acute,  and  ready  eloquence,  his 
sarcastic  wit,  his  vehemence,  his  insolence,  his  fits  of  tem- 
pestuous rage,  his  queer  inmates,  old  Mr.  Levett  and  blind 
Mrs.  Williams,  the  cat  Hodge  and  the  negro  Frank,  all  are 
as  familiar  to  us  as  the  objects  by  which  v/e  have  been  sur- 
rounded from  childhood.  But  we  have  no  minute  infor- 
mation respecting  those  years  f Johnson’s  life  during  which 
his  character  and  his  manners  became  immutably  fixed.  We 
know  him,  not  as  he  was  known  to  the  men  of  his  own  gen- 
eration, but  as  he  was  known  to  men  whose  father  he  might 
have  been.  That  celebrated  club  of  which  he  was  the  most 
distinguished  member  contained  few  persons  who  could  re- 
member a time  when  his  fame  was  not  fully  established  and 
his  habits  completely  formed.  He  had  made  himself  a 
name  in  literature  w^hile  Reynolds  and  the  Wartons  were 


66‘2  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Btill  boys.  He  was  about  twenty  years  older  than  Burke, 
Goldsmitli,  and  Gerard  Hamilton,  about  tliirty  years  older 
than  Gibbon,  Beauclerk,  and  Langton,  about  forty  years 
older  than  Lord  Stowell,  Sir  William  Jones,  and  Windham. 
Boswell  and  Mrs.  Thrale,  the  two  writers  from  whom  we 
derive  most  of  our  knowledge  respecting  him,  never  saw 
Jiim  till  long  after  he  was  fifty  years  old,  till  most  of  his 
great  works  had  become  classical,  and  till  the  pension  be- 
stowed on  him  by  the  Crown  had  placed  him  above  poverty. 
Of  those  eminent  men  who  were  his  most  intimate  associates 
towards  the  close  of  his  life,  the  only  one,  as  far  as  we  re- 
member, who  knew  him  during  the  first  ten  or  twelve  years 
of  his  residence  in  the  capital,  was  David  Garrick ; and  it 
does  not  appear  that,  during  those  years,  Da\dd  Garrick  saw 
much  of  his  fellow-townsman. 

Johnson  came  up  to  London  precisely  at  the  time  when 
the  condition  of  a man  of  letters  was  most  miserable  and 
degraded.  It  was  a dark  night  between  two  sunny  days. 
The  age  of  patronage  had  passed  away.  The  age  of  general 
curiosity  and  intelligence  had  not  arrived.  The  number  of 
readers  is  at  present  so  great  that  a popular  author  may 
subsist  in  comfort  and  opulence  on  the  profits  of  his  works. 
In  the  reigns  of  William  the  Third,  of  Anne,  and  of  George 
the  First,  even  such  men  as  Congreve  and  Addison  w’ould 
scarcely  have  been  able  to  live  like  gentlemen  by  the  mere 
sale  of  their  writings.  But  the  deficiency  of  the  natural  de- 
mand for  literature  was,  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  and 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  more  than  made 
up  by  artificial  encouragement,  by  a vast  system  of  boun- 
ties and  premiums.  There  was,  perhaps,  never  a time  at 
which  the  rewards  of  literary  merit  were  so  splendid  at 
which  men  who  could  write  well  found  such  easy  admittance 
into  the  most  distinguished  society,  and  to  the  highest  honors 
of  the  state.  The  chiefs  of  both  the  groat  parties  into  which 
the  kingdom  was  divided  patronized  literature  with  emulous 
munificence.  Congreve,  when  he  had  scarcely  attained  his 
majority,  was  rewarded  for  his  first  comedy  with  places 
which  made  him  independent  for  life.  Smith,  though  his 
Ilippolytus  and  Phaedra  failed,  would  have  been  consoled 
with  three  hundred  a year  but  for  his  own  folly.  Rowe  w^as 
not  only  Poet  Laureate,  but  also  land-surveyor  of  the  customs 
in  the  port  of  London,  clerk  of  the  council  to  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  and  secretary  of  the  Presentations  to  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. Hughes  was  secretary  to  the  commissions  of  the 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


CG3 


Peace.  Ambrose  Philips  was  judge  of  the  Prerogative 
Court  in  Ireland.  Locke  was  Commissioner  of  Appeals  and 
of  the  Board  of  Trade.  Newton  was  Master  of  the  Mint. 
Stepney  and  Prior  were  employed  in  embassies  of  high  dig- 
nity and  importance.  Gay,  who  commenced  life  as  ap- 
prentice to  a silk  mei’cer,  became  a secretary  of  legation  at 
five-and-twenty.  It  was  a poem  on  the  Death  of  Charles 
the  Second,  and  to  the  City  and  Country  Mouse,  that  Mon- 
tague owed  his  introduction  into  public  life,  his  earldom,  his 
garter,  and  his  Auditorship  of  the  Exchequer.  Swift,  but  for 
the  unconquerable  prejudice  of  the  queen,  would  have  been  a 
bishop.  Oxford,  with  his  white  staff  in  his  hand,  passed 
through  the  crowd  of  his  suitors  to  welcome  Parnell,  when 
that  ingenious  writer  deserted  the  Whigs.  Steele  was  a 
commissioner  of  stamps  and  a member  of  Parliament.  Ar- 
thur Mainwaring  was  commissioner  of  the  customs,  and 
auditor  of  the  imprest.  Tickell  was  secretary  to  the  Lords 
Justices  of  Ireland.  Addison  was  secretary  of  state. 

This  liberal  patronage  was  brought  into  fashion,  as  it 
seems,  by  the  magnificent  Dorset,  almost  the  only  noble 
versifier  in  the  court  of  Charles  the  Second  who  possessed 
talents  for  composition  which  were  independent  of  the  aid 
of  a coronet.  Montague  owed  his  elevation  to  the  favor 
of  Dorset,  and  imitated  through  the  whole  course  of  his  life 
the  liberality  to  which  he  was  himself  so  greatly  indebted. 
The  Tory  leaders,  Harley  and  Bolingbroke  in  particular,  vied 
with  the  chiefs  of  the  Whig  party  in  zeal  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  letters.  But  soon  after  the  accession  of  the 
house  of  Hanover  a change  took  place.  The  supreme  power 
passed  to  a man  who  cared  little  for  poetry  or  eloquence. 
The  importance  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  constantly 
on  the  increase.  The  government  was  under  the  necessity 
of  bartering  for  Parliamentary  support  much  of  that  patron- 
age which  had  been  employed  in  fostering  literary  merit ; and 
Walpole  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  divert  any  part  of  the 
fund  of  corruption  to  purposes  which  he  considered  as  idle. 
He  had  eminent  talents  for  government  and  for  debate. 
But  he  had  paid  little  attention  to  books,  and  felt  little  re- 
spect for  authors.  One  of  the  coarse  jokes  of  his  friend 
Sir  Charles  Hanbury  Williams,  was  far  more  pleasing  to 
him  than  Thomson’s  Seasons  or  Richardson’s  Pamela.  He 
had  observed  that  some  of  the  distinguished  writers  whom 
the  favor  of  Halifax  had  turned  into  statesmen  had  been 
mere  encumbrances  to  their  party,  dawdleis  in  office,  and 


G04 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLAITECUS  WRITINGC, 


mutes  in  Parliament.  During  the  whole  course  of  his  ad- 
ministration, therefore,  he  scarcely  befriended  a single  man 
of  genius.  The  best  writers  of  the  age  gave  all  tlieir  sup- 
port to  the  opposition,  and  contributed  to  excite  tliat  dis- 
content which,  after  plunging  the  nation  into  a foolish  and 
unjust  war,  overthrew  the  minister  to  make  room  for  men 
less  able  and  equally  immoral.  The  op|>osition  could  re- 
ward its  eulogists  with  little  more  than  promises  and 
caresses.  St.  James’s  would  give  nothing:  Leicester  house 
had  nothing  to  give. 

Thus,  at  the  time  when  Johnson  commenced  his  literary 
career,  a writer  had  little  to  hope  from  the  patronage  of 
powerful  individuals.  The  patronage  of  the  public  did  not 
yet  furnish  the  means  of  comfortable  subsistence.  The 
prices  paid  by  booksellers  to  authors  were  so  low  that  a man 
of  considerable  talents  and  unremitting  industry  could  do 
little  more  than  provide  for  the  day  which  was  passing  over 
him.  The  lean  kine  had  eaten  up  the  fat  kine.  The  thin 
and  withered  ears  had  devoured  the  good  ears.  The  season 
of  rich  harvests  was  over,  and  the  period  of  famine  had 
begun.  All  that  is  squalid  and  miserable  might  now  be 
summed  up  in  the  word  Poet.  That  word  denoted  a 
creature  dressed  like  a scarecrow,  familiar  with  compters 
and  spunging-houses,  and  perfectly  qualified  to  decide  on 
the  comparative  merits  of  the  Common  Side  in  the  King’s 
Bench  prison  and  of  Mount  Scoundrel  in  the  Fleet.  Even 
the  poorest  pitied  him  ; and  they  well  might  pity  him.  For 
if  their  condition  was  equally  abject,  their  aspirings  vrere 
not  equally  high,  nor  their  sense  of  insult  equally  acute.  To 
lodge  in  a garret  up  four  pair  of  stairs,  to  dine  in  a cellar 
among  footmen  out  of  place,  to  translate  ten  hours  a day  for 
the  wages  of  a ditcher,  to  be  hunted  by  bailiffs  from  one 
haunt  of  beggary  and  pestilence  to  another,  from  Grub 
Street  to  St.  George’s  Fields,  and  from  St.  George’s  Fields 
to  the  alleys  behind  St.  Martin’s  church,  to  sleep  on  a bulk 
in  June  and  amidst  the  ashes  of  a glass-house  in  December, 
to  die  in  an  hospital  and  to  be  buried  in  a parish  vault,  was 
the  fate  of  more  than  one  writer  who,  if  he  had  lived  thirty 
years  earlier,  would  have  been  admitted  to  the  sittings  of  the 
Kitcat  or  the  Scriblerus  club,  would  have  sat  in  Parliament,, 
and  would  have  been  entrusted  with  embassies  to  the  High 
Allies ; who,  if  he  had  lived  in  our  time,  would  have  found 
encouragement  scarcely  less  munificent  in  Albemarle  Street 
or  in  Paternoster  Bow* 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


665 


As  every  climate  has  its  peculiar  diseases,  so  every  walk 
of  life  lias  its  peculiar  temptations.  The  literary  character, 
assuredly,  has  always  had  its  share  of  faults,  vanity,  jealousy, 
morbid  sensibility.  To  these  faults  were  now  superadded 
the  faults  which  are  commonly  found*  in  men  whose  liveli- 
hood is  precarious,  and  whose  principles  are  exposed  to  the 
trial  of  severe  distress.  All  the  vices  of  the  gambler  and  of 
the  beggar  were  blended  with  those  of  the  author.  The 

{irizes  in  the  wretched  lottery  of  book-making  were  scarcely 
ess  ruinous  than  the  blanks.  If  good  fortune  came,  it  came 
in  such  a manner  that  it  was  almost  certain  to  be  abused. 
After  months  of  starvation  and  despair,  a full  third  night  or 
a well-received  dedication  filled  the  pocket  of  the  lean, 
ragged,  unwashed  poet  with  guineas.  lie  hastened  to  enjoy 
those  luxuries  with  the  images  of  which  his  mind  had  been 
haunted  while  he  was  sleeping  amidst  the  cinders  and  eating 
potatoes  at  the  Irish  ordinary  in  Shoe  Lane.  A week  of 
taverns  soon  qualified  him  for  another  year  of  night-cellars. 
Such  was  tlie  life  of  Savage,  of  Boyse,  and  of  a crowd  of 
others.  Sometimes  blazing  in  gold-laced  hats  and  waist- 
coats ; sometimes  lying  in  bed  because  their  coats  had  gone 
to  pieces,  or  wearing  paper  cravats  because  their  linen  was 
in  pawn  ; sometimes  drinking  Champagne  and  Tokay  with 
Betty  Careless ; sometimes  standing  at  the  window  of  an 
eating-house  in  Porridge  island,  to  snuff  up  the  scent  of 
what  they  could  not  afford  to  taste ; they  knew  luxury ; 
they  knew  beggary ; but  they  never  knew  comfort.  These 
men  were  irreclaimable.  They  looked  on  a regular  and 
frugal  life  with  the  same  aversion  which  an  old  gipsy  or  a 
Mohawk  hunter  feels  for  a stationary  abode,  and  for  the 
restraints  and  securities  of  civilized  communities.  They 
were  as  untameable,  as  much  wedded  to  their  desolate  free- 
dom, as  the  wild  ass.  They  could  no  more  be  broken  into 
the  offices  of  social  man  than  the  unicorn  could  be  trained 
to  serve  and  abide  by  the  crib.  It  was  well  if  they  did  not, 
like  beasts  of  a still  fiercer  race,  tear  the  hands  which  min- 
istered to  their  necessities.  To  assist  them  was  impossible  ; 
and  the  most  benevolent  of  mankind  at  length  became 
weary  of  giving  relief  which  was  dissipated  with  the  wildest 
profusion  as  soon  as  it  had  been  received.  If  a sum  was 
bestowed  on  the  wretched  adventurer,  such  as,  properly 
husbanded,  might  have  supplied  him  for  six  months,  it  was 
instantly  spent  in  strange  freaks  of  sensuality,  and,  before 
forty-eight  hours  had  elapsed,  the  poet  was  Again  pestering 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


i566 


all  liis  acquaintance  for  two-pence  to  get  a plate  of  shin  of 
beef  at  a subterraneous  cook-sliop.  If  liis  friends  gave  him 
an  asylum  in  their  liouses,  those  liouses  were  forthwith 
turned  into  bagnios  and  taverns.  All  order  was  destroyed  ; 
all  business  w^as  sus])ended.  The  most  good-natured  host 
began  to  re})cnt  of  his  eagerness  to  serve  a man  of  genius 
in  distress  wdien  he  heard  his  guest  roaring  for  fresh  punch 
at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

A few^  eminent  writers  were  more  fortunate.  Pope  had 
been  raised  above  poverty  by  the  active  patronage  w^hich, 
in  his  youth,  both  the  great  political  parties  had  extended 
to  his  Homer.  Young  had  received  the  only  pension  ever 
bestow^ed,  to  the  best  of  our  recollection,  by  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  as  the  rewmrd  of  mere  literary  merit.  One  or  two 
of  the  many  poets  who  attached  themselves  to  the  opj^osi- 
tion,  Thomson  in  particular,  and  Mallet,  obtained,  after 
much  severe  suffering,  the  means  of  subsistence  from  their 
political  friends.  Richardson,  like  a man  of  sense,  kept  his 
shop ; and  his  shop  kept  him,  which  his  novels,  admirable  as 
they  are,  w^ould  scarcely  have  done.  But  nothing  could  be 
more  deplorable  than  the  state  even  of  the  ablest  men,  who 
at  that  time  depended  for  subsistence  on  their  writings. 
Johnson,  Collins,  Fielding,  and  Thomson,  w^ere  ceitainly  four 
of  the  most  distinguished  persons  that  England  produced 
during  the  eighteenth  century.  It  is  w^ell  knowm  that  they 
were  all  four  arrested  for  debt. 

Into  calamities  and  difficulties  such  as  these  Johnson 
plunged  in  his  tw^enty-eighth  year.  From  that  time  till  he 
w^as  three  or  four  and  fifty,  we  have  little  information  re- 
specting him ; little,  we  mean,  compared  wdth  the  full  and 
accurate  information  which  we  possess  respecting  his  pro- 
ceedings and  habits  towards  the  close  of  his  life.  He  emerged 
at  length  from  cock-lofts  and  sixpenny  ordinaries  into 
tlie  society  of  the  polished  and  the  opulent.  His  fame  was 
established.  A pension  sufficient  for  his  w^ants  had  been 
conferred  on  him : and  he  came  forth  to  astonish  a gener- 
ation wdth  which  he  had  almost  as  little  in  common  as  with 
Frenchmen  or  Spaniards. 

In  his  early  years  he  had  occasionally  seen  the  great ; but 
he  had  seen  them  as  a beggar.  He  now  came  among  them 
as  a companion.  The  demand  for  amusement  and  instruction 
had,  during  the  course  of  tw^enty  years,  been  gradually  in- 
creasing. The  price  of  literary  labor  had  risen ; and  those 
rising  men  oi  letters  with  w horn  Johnson  was  henceforth  to 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


667 


associate  were  for  the  most  part  persons  widely  different  from 
those  who  had  walked  about  with  liim  all  night  in  the  streets 
for  want  of  a lodging.  Burke,  Robertson,  the  Wartons,  Gray, 
Mason,  Gibbon,  Adam  Smith,  Beattie,  Sir  William  Jones, 
Goldsmith,  and  Churchill,  were  the  most  distinguished  wri- 
ters of  what  may  be  called  the  second  generation  of  the 
Johnsonian  age.  Of  these  men  Churchill  was  the  only  one 
in  whom  we  can  trace  the  stronger  lineaments  of  that  char- 
acter which,  when  Johnson  first  came  up  to  London,  was 
common  among  authors.  Of  the  rest,  scarcely  any  had  felt 
the  pressure  of  severe  poverty.  Almost  all  had  been  early 
admitted  into  the  most  respectable  society  on  an  equal  foot- 
ing. They  were  men  of  quite  a different  species  from  the 
dependents  of  Curll  and  Osborne. 

Johnson  came  among  them  the  solitary  specimen  of  a 
past  age,  the  last  survivor  of  the  genuine  race  of  Grub  Street 
hacks ; the  last  of  that  generation  of  authors  whose  abject 
misery  and  whose  dissolute  manners  had  furnished  inexhaust- 
ible matter  to  the  satirical  genius  of  Pope.  From  nature,  he 
had  received  an  uncouth  figure,  a diseased  constitution,  *and 
an  irritable  temper.  The  manner  in  which  the  earlier  years 
of  his  manhood  had  been  passed  had  given  to  his  demeanor, 
and  even  to  his  moral  character,  some  peculiarities  appall- 
ing to  the  civilized  beings  who  were  the  companions  of  his 
old  age.  The  perverse  irregularity  of  his  hours,  the  sloven- 
liness of  his  person,  his  fits  of  strenuous  exertion,  inter- 
rupted by  long  intervals  of  sluggishness,  his  strange  absti- 
nence, and  his  equally  strange  voracity,  his  active  benevo- 
lence, contrasted  with  the  constant  rudeness  and  the  occa- 
sional ferocity  of  his  manners  in  society,  made  him,  in  the 
opinion  of  those  with  whom  he  lived  during  the  last  twenty 
years  of  his  life,  a complete  original.  An  original  he  was, 
undoubtedly,  in  some  respects.  But  if  we  possessed  full  in- 
formation concerning  those  who  shared  his  early  hardships, 
we  should  probably  find  that  what  we  call  his  singularities 
of  manner  were,  for  the  most  part,  failings  which  he  had  in 
common  with  the  class  to  which  he  belonged.  He  ate  at 
Streatham  Park  as  he  had  been  used  to  eat  behind  the  screen 
at  St.  J ohn’s  Gate,  when  he  was  ashamed  to  show  his  ragged 
clothes.  He  ate  as  it  was  natural  that  a man  should  eat, 
who,  during  a great  part  of  his  life,  had  passed  the  morning 
in  doubt  whether  he  should  have  food  for  the  afternoon. 
The  habits  of  his  early  life  had  accustomed  him  to  bear  pri« 
ration  with  fortitude,  but  not  to  taste  pleasure  with  modera* 


668  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tion.  lie  could  fust ; but  when  he  did  not  fast,  he  tore  hi# 
dinner  like  a famished  wolf,  with  the  veins  swelling  on  hb 
forehead,  and  the  perspiration  running  down  his  cheeks. 
He  scarcely  ever  took  Avine.  But  when  he  drank  it,  he  drank 
it  greedily  and  in  large  tumblers.  These  were,  in  fact, 
mitigated  symptoms  of  that  same  moral  disease  which 
raged  with  such  deadly  malignity  in  his  friends  Savage  and 
Boyse.  The  roughness  and  violence  which  he  showed  in 
society  were  to  be  expected  from  a man  whose  temper,  not 
naturally  gentle,  had  been  long  tried  by  the  bitterest  calam- 
ities, by  the  want  of  meat,  of  fire,  and  of  clothes,  by  the 
importunity  of  creditors,  by  the  insolence  of  booksellers^ 
by  the  derision  of  fools,  by  the  insincerity  of  patrons,  by  that 
bread  which  is  the  bitterest  of  all  food,  by  those  stairs  Avliich 
are  the  most  toilsome  of  all  paths,  by  that  deferred  hope 
which  makes  the  heart  sick.  Through  all  these  things  the 
ill-dressed,  coarse,  ungainly  pedant  had  struggled  manfully 
up  to  eminence  and  command.  It  Avas  natural  that  in  the 
exercise  of  his  poAver,  he  should  be  “ eo  immitior,  quia  tok 
eraverat,”  that,  though  his  heart  was  undoubtedly  generous 
and  humane,  his  demeanor  in  society  should  be  harsh  and 
despotic.  For  seA^ere  distress  he  had  sympathy,  and  not  only 
sympathy,  but  munificent  relief.  But  for  the  suffering  which 
a harsh  Avord  inflicts  upon  a delicate  mind  he  had  no  pity ; 
for  it  was  a kind  of  suffering  Avhich  he  could  scarcely  con- 
ceive. He  Avould  carry  home  on  his  shoulders  a sick  and 
starving  girl  from  the  streets.  He  turned  his  house  into 
a place  of  refuge  for  a crowd  of  wretched  old  creatures 
who  could  find  no  other  asylum ; nor  could  all  their 
peevishness  and  ingratitude  weary  out  his  benevolence.  But 
the  pangs  of  wounded  vanity  seemed  to  him  ridiculous  : and 
he  scarcely  felt  sufficient  compassion  even  for  the  pangs  of 
Avounded  affection.  He  had  seen  and  felt  so  much  of  sharp 
misery,  that  he  was  not  affected  by  paltry  A^exations,  and  he 
seemed  to  think  that  everybody  ought  to  be  as  much  hard 
ened  to  those  vexations  as  himself.  He  was  angry  with 
BosAvell  for  complaining  of  a headache,  Avith  Mrs.  Thrale  for 
grumbling  about  the  dust  on  the  road,  or  the  smell  of  the 
kitchen.  These  were,  in  his  phrase,  “ foppish  lamentations,” 
AAdiich  people  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  utter  in  a world  so 
full  of  sin  and  sorroAV.  Goldsmith  crying  because  the  Good- 
natured  Man  had  failed,  inspired  him  vdth  no  pity.  Though 
his  own  health  was  not  good,  he  detested  and  despised  val- 
etudinarians. Pecuniary  losses,  unless  they  reduced  the 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


669 


^oser  absolutely  to  beggary,  moved  Liin  very  little.  People 
whose  hearts  had  been  softened  by  prosperity  might  weep, 
he  saidj  for  such  events  ; but  all  that  could  be  expected  of 
a plain  man  was  not  to  laugh.  He  was  not  much  moved 
even  by  the  spectacle  of  Lady  Tavistock  dying  of  a broken 
heart  for  the  loss  of  her  lord.  Such  grief  he  considered  as 
a luxury  reserved  for  the  idle  and  the  wealthy.  A washer 
woman,  left  a widow  with  nine  small  children,  would  not 
have  sobbed  herself  to  death. 

A person  who  troubled  himself  so  little  about  small  or 
sentimental  grievances  was  not  likely  to  be  very  attentive 
to  the  feelings  of  others  in  tlio  ordinary  intercourse  of  so- 
ciety. He  could  not  understand  how  a sarcasm  or  a rep- 
rimand could  make  any  man  really  unhappy.  ‘‘  My  dear 
doctor,”  said  he  to  Goldsmith,  “what  harm  does  it  do  to  a 
man  to  call  him  Ilolofernes  ? ” “ Pooh,  ma’am,”  he  exclaimed 
to  Mrs.  Carter,  “ who  is  the  worse  for  being  talked  of  un- 
charitably?” Politeness  has  been  veil  defined  as  benev- 
olence in  small  things.  Johnson  was  impolite,  not  because 
he  wanted  benevolence,  but  because  small  things  appeared 
smaller  to  him  than  to  people  who  had  never  known  what  it 
was  to  live  for  fourpence  halfpenny  a day. 

The  characteristic  peculiarity  of  his  intellect  was  the 
union  of  great  powers  with  low  prejudice;^.  If  we  judged  of 
him  by  the  best  parts  of  his  mind,  we  should  place  him  al- 
most as  high  as  he  was  placed  by  the  idolatry  of  Boswell ; 
if  by  the  Avorst  parts  of  his  mind,  we  should  place  him  even 
below  Boswell  himself.  Where  he  was  not  under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  strange  scruple,  or  some  domineering  pas- 
sion, which  prevented  him  from  boldly  and  fairly  investiga- 
ting a subject,  he  was  a wary  and  acute  reasoner,  a little 
too  much  inclined  to  skepticism,  and  a little  too  fond  of  par- 
adox. No  man  was  less  likely  to  be  imposed  upon  by  falla- 
cies in  argument  or  by  exaggerated  statements  of  fact.  But 
if  while  he  was  beating  down  sophisms  and  exposing  false 
testimony,  some  childish  prejudices,  such  as  would  excite 
laughter  in  a avcII  managed  nursery,  came  across  him,  he  was 
smitlt/L  as  if  by  enchantment.  His  mind  dwindled  away 
under  the  spell  from  gigantic  elevation  to  dwarfish  little- 
ness. T1  ose  who  had  lately  been  admiring  its  amplitude 
and  its  f )rce  were  now  as  much  astonished  at  its  strange 
nari-owress  and  feebleness  as  the  fisherman  in  the  ArahiV 
tale,  Avhen  he  saw  the  Genie,  whose  stature  had  OA^ersiiado wec» 
the  whole  sea-coast,  and  whose  might  seemed  o(^ual  to  a con- 


670  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

test  witli  armies,  contract  himself  to  the  climeiisio^is  of  his 
small  prison,  and  lie  there  the  helpless  slave  of  the  charm 
of  Solomon. 

Johnson  was  in  the  habit  of  sifting  with  extreme  severity 
the  evidence  for  all  stories  which  were  merely  odd.  But 
when  they  were  not  only  odd  but  miraculous,  his  severity 
relaxed.  He  began  to  be  credulous  precisely  at  the  point 
where  the  most  credulous  people  begin  to  be  skeptical.  It 
is  curious  to  observe,  both  in  his  writr.igs  and  in  his  conver- 
sation, the  contrast  between  the  disdainful  manner  in  which 
he  rejects  unauthenticated  anecdotes,  even  when  they  are 
consistent  with  the  general  laws  of  nature,  and  the  respect- 
ful manner  in  which  he  mentions  tlie  wildest  stories  relating 
to  the  invisible  world.  A man  w^ho  told  him  of  a water- 
spout or  a meteoric  stone  generally  had  the  lie  direct  given 
him  for  his  pains.  A man  who  had  told  him  of  a prediction 
or  a dream  wonderfully  accomplished  was  sure  of  a court- 
eous hearing.  ‘‘Johnson,”  observed  Hogarth,  “like  King 
David,  says  in  his  haste  that  all  men  are  liars.”  “ His  in- 
credulity,” says  Mrs.  Thrale,  “ amounted  almost  to  disease.” 
She  tells  us  how  he  browbeat  a gentleman,  who  gave  him  an 
account  of  a hurricane  in  the  West  Indies,  and  a poor 
quaker  who  related  some  strange  circumstances  about  the 
red-hot  balls  fired  at  the  siege  of  Gibraltar.  “ It  is  not  so. 
It  cannot  be  true.  Don’t  tell  that  story  again.  You  cannot 
think  how  poor  a figure  you  make  in  telling  it.”  He  once 
said,  half  jestingly  we  suppose,  that  for  six  months  he 
refused  to  credit  the  fact  of  the  earthquake  at  Lisbon,  and 
that  he  still  believed  the  extent  of  the  calamity  to  be  greatly 
exaggerated.  Yet  he  related  with  a grave  face  how  old  Mr. 
Cave  of  St.  John’s  Gate  saw  a ghost,  and  how  this  ghost 
was  something  of  a shadowy  being.  lie  went  himself  on  a 
ghost-hunt  to  Cock  Lane,  and  was  angry  with  John  Wesley 
not  following  up  another  scent  of  the  same  kind  vvith  proper 
spiiit  and  perseverance.  He  rejects  the  Celtic  genealogies 
and  poems  without  the  least  lEiesitation ; yet  he  declares 
himself  willing  to  believe  the  stories  of  the  second  sight.  If 
he  had  examined  the  claims  of  the  Highland  seers  with  half 
the  severity  with  which  he  sifted  the  evidence  for  the  gen- 
uineness of  Fingal,  he  would,  we  suspect,  have  come  away 
from  Scotland  with  a mind  fully  made  up.  In  his  Lives 
of  the  Poets,  we  find  that  he  is  unwilling  to  give  credit  to 
the  accounts  of  Lord  Roscommon’s  early  proficiency  in  his 
studies;  but  he  tells  with  great  solemnity  an  absurd 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


C71 


romance  about  some  intelligence  preternaturally  impressed 
on  the  mind  of  that  nobleman.  He  avows  himself  to  be  in 
great  doubt  about  the  truth  of  the  story,  and  ends  by  warn- 
ing his  readers  not  wholly  to  slight  such  impressions. 

Many  of  his  sentiments  on  religious  subjects  are  worthy 
of  a liberal  and  enlarged  mind.  He  could  discern  clearly 
enough  tlie  folly  and  meanness  of  all  bigotry  except  his 
own.  When  he  spoke  of  the  scruples  of  the  Puritans,  ho 
spoke  like  a person  who  liad  really  obtained  an  insight  into 
tlie  divine  philosophy  of  the  New  Testament,  and  who  con- 
sidered Christianity  as  a noble  scheme  of  government, 
tending  to  promote  the  happiness  and  to  elevate  the  moral 
nature  of  man.  Tlie  horror  which  the  sectaries  felt  for 
cards,  Christmas  ale,  plum-porridge,  mince-pies,  and  dancing 
bears,  excited  his  contempt.  To  the  arguments  urged  by 
some  very  worthy  people  against  showy  dress  he  replied 
with  admirable  sense  and  spirit,  “ Let  us  not  be  found,  when 
our  Master  calls  us,  stripping  the  lace  off  our  waistcoats, 
but  the  spirit  of  contention  from  our  souls  and  tongues. 
Alas  ! sir,  a man  who  cannot  get  to  heaven  in  a green  coat 
will  not  find  his  way  thither  the  sooner  in  a gray  one.”  Yet 
he  was  himself  under  the  tyranny  of  scruples  as  unreason- 
able as  those  of  Hudibras  or  Ralpho,  and  carried  his  zeal  for 
ceremonies  and  for  ecclesiastical  dignities  to  lengths  alto- 
getlier  inconsistent  with  reason  or  with  Christian  charity.  He 
has  gravely  noted  down  in  his  diary  that  he  once  committed 
the  sin  of  drinking  coffee  on  Good  Friday.  In  Scotland,  he 
thought  it  his  duty  to  ]>ass  several  months  without  joining 
in  public  worship,  solely  because  the  ministers  of  the  kirk 
had  not  been  ordained  by  bishops.  His  mode  of  estimating 
the  piety  of  ]iis  neighbors  was  somewhat  singular.  “Camp- 
bell,” said  he,  “ is  a good  man,  a pious  man.  I am  afraid  he 
lias  not  been  in  the  inside  of  a church  for  many  years ; but 
lie  never  passes  a church  without  pulling  off  his  hat : this 
shows  he  has  good  principles.”  Spain  and  Sicily  must 
surely  contain  many  pious  robbers  and  well-principled 
assassins.  Johnson  could  easily  see  that  a Roundhead  who 
named  all  his  children  after  Solomon’s  singers,  and  talked 
in  the  House  of  Commons  about  seeking  the  Lord,  might  be 
an  unprincipled  villain  whose  religious  mummeries  only 
aggravated  his  guilt.  But  a man  who  took  off  his  hat  when 
he  passed  a church  episcojially  consecrated  must  be  a good 
man,  a pious  man,  a man  of  good  principles.  Johnson  could 
easily  see  that  those  persons  who  looked  on  a djince  or  a 


672  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writing^. 

laced  waistcoat  as  sinful,  deemed  most  ignobly  of  the  attri 
butes  of  God  and  of  the  ends  of  revelation.  But  with  what 
a storm  of  invective  he  would  have  overwhelmed  any  man 
who  had  blamed  him  for  celebrating  the  redemjjtion  of  man- 
kind with  sugarless  tea  and  butterless  buns. 

Nobody  spoke  more  contemptuously  of  the  cant  of  pa- 
triotism. Nobody  saw  more  clearly  the  error  of  those  who 
regarded  liberty,  not  as  a means,  but  as  an  end,  and  who 
proposed  to  themselves,  as  the  object  of  their  pursuit,  the 
prosperity  of  the  state  as  distinct  from  the  pros])erity  of  the 
individuals  who  compose  the  state.  His  calm  and  settled 
opinion  seems  to  have  been  that  forms  of  government  have 
little  or  no  influence  on  tlio  happiness  of  society.  This 
opinion,  erroneous  as  it  is,  ought  at  least  to  have  preserved 
him  from  all  intemperance  on  political  questions.  It  did 
not,  however,  preserve  him  from  the  lowest,  fiercest,  and 
most  absurd  extravagances  of  party-s])irit,  from  rants  which, 
in  every  thing  but  the  diction,  resembled  those  of  Squire 
Western.  He  was,  as  a politician,  half  ice  and  half  fire. 
On  the  side  of  his  intellect  he  was  a mere  Pococurante, 
far  too  apathetic  about  public  affairs,  far  too  skeptical  as  to 
the  good  or  evil  tendency  of  any  form  of  polity.  His  passions, 
on  the  contrary,  were  violent  even  to  slaying  against  all  who 
leaned  to  Whiggish  principles.  The  well-known  lines  which 
he  inserted  in  Goldsmith’s  Traveller  express  what  seems  to 
have  been  his  deliberate  judgment : 

“ How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 

That  part  which  kings  or  laws  can  cause  or  cure  I ** 

He  had  previously  put  expressions  very  similar  into  the 
mouth  of  Rasselas.  It  is  amusing  to  contrast  these  passages 
with  the  torrents  of  raving  abuse  which  he  poured  forth 
against  the  Long  Parliament  and  the  American  Congress. 
In  one  of  the  conversations  reported  by  Boswell,  this  incon- 
sistency displays  itself  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner. 

“ Sir  Adam  Ferguson,”  says  Boswell,  “ suggested  that 
luxury  corrupts  a people,  and  destroys  the  spirit  of  liberty. 
Johnson  : ‘ Sir,  that  is  all  visionary.  I would  not  give  half 
a guinea  to  live  under  one  form  of  government  rather  than 
another.  It  is  of  no  moment  to  the  happiness  of  an  indi- 
vidual. Sir,  the  danger  of  the  abuse  of  power  is  nothing 
to  a private  man.  What  Frenchman  is  prevented  passing 
his  life  as  he  pleases?’  Sir  Adam:  ‘But,  sir,  in  the  Brit- 
ish constitution  it  is  surely  of  importance  to  keep  up  a 


SAMtJEL  JOHNSOir. 


C73 


spirit  in  the  people,  so  ns  to  preserve  a balance  against  the 
crown.’  JoriNSON  : ‘ Sir,  I perceive  you  are  a vile  Whig. 
Why  all  this  childish  jealousy  of  the  ])ower  of  the  crown  ? 
The  crown  has  not  ]>ower  enough.’  ” 

One  of  the  old  philosphers.  Lord  Bacon  tells  us,  used  to 
say  that  life  and  death  were  just  the  same  to  him.  ‘‘Why 
then,”  said  an  objector,  “ do  you  not  kill  yourself?”  The 
]diilosopher  answered,  “ Because  it  is  just  the  same.”  If 
the  difference  between  two  forms  of  government  be  not 
worth  half  a guinea,  it  is  not  easy  to  see  how  Whiggism 
' can  be  viler  than  Toryism,  or  how  the  crown  can  have  too 
little  power.  If  the  happiness  of  individuals  is  not  affected 
i by  political  abuses,  zeal  for  liberty  is  doubtless  ridiculous, 
i But  zeal  for  monarchy  must  be  equally  so.  No  person 
would  have  been  more  quick-sighted  than  Johnson  to  such  a 
contradiction  as  this  in  the  logic  of  an  antagonist. 

The  judgments  which  Johnson  passed  on  books  were,  in 
his  own  time,  regarded  with  superstitious  veneration,  and, 
in  our  time,  are  generally  treated  with  indiscriminate  con- 
tempt. They  are  the  judgments  of  a strong  but  enslaved 
understanding.  The  mind  of  the  critic  was  hedged  round 
by  an  uninterrupted  fence  of  prejudices  and  superstitions. 
Within  his  narrow  limits,  he  displayed  a vigor  and  an  ac- 
tivity Avhich  ought  to  have  enabled  him  to  clear  the  barrier 
that  confined  him. 

How  it  chanced  that  a man  who  reasoned  on  his  premises 
so  ably,  should  assume  his  premises  so  foolishly  is  one  of 
the  great  mysteries  of  human  nature.  The  same  inconsist- 
ency ■^aay  be  observed  in  the  schoolmen  of  the  middle  ages. 
Thoso  writers  show  so  much  acuteness  and  force  of  mind 
in  arguing  on  their  wretched  data,  that  a^  modern  reader  is 
jierpetually  at  a loss  to  comprehend  how  such  minds  came 
by  such  data.  Not  a flaw  In  the  superstructure  of  the 
theory  which  they  are  rearing  escapes  their  vigilance.  Yet 
they  are  blind  to  the  obvious  unsoundness  of  the  founda- 
tion. It  is  the  same  with  some  eminent  lawyers.  Their 
legal  arguments  are  intellectual  prodigies,  abounding  with 
the  happiest  analogies  and  the  most  refined  distinctions. 
The  principles  of  their  arbitrary  science  being  once  admit- 
ted, the  statute-book  and  the  reports  being  once  assumed  as 
the  foundations  of  reasoning,  these  men  must  be  allowed  to 
be  perfect  masters  of  logic.  But  if  a question  arises  as  to 
the  postulates  on  which  their  whole  system  rests,  if  they  are 
called  upon  to  vindicate  the  fundamental  maxims  of  that 
VoL.  I.— 4B 


674 


MACAULAY’B  MISCELLANE(»US  AVIllTINGS. 


system  wliich  they  liave  passed  tlieir  lives  in  studying,  tlieso 
very  men  often  talk  the  language  of  savages  or  of  ehildren. 
Those  who  liave  listened  to  a man  of  this  class  in  his  own 
court,  and  who  have  witnessed  the  skill  with  which  he  anii- 
lyzes  and  digests  a vast  mass  of  evidence,  or  reconciles  a 
crowd  of  precedents  which  at  first  sight  seem  contradict 
tory,  scarcely  know  him  again  when,  a few  hours  later,  they 
h(;ar  him  speaking  on  the  other  side  of  Westminster  Hall  in 
his  capacity  of  legislator.  They  can  scarcely  believe  that 
the  paltry  quirks  which  are  faintly  heard  through  a storm  of 
coughing,  and  which  do  not  impose  on  the  plainest  country 
gentleman,  can  proceed  from  the  same  sharp  and  vigorous 
intellect  Avhich  had  excited  their  admiration  under  the  same 
roof,  and  on  the  same  day. 

Johnson  decided  literary  questions  like  a lawyer,  not 
like  a legislator.  lie  never  examined  foundations  where 
a point  Avas  already  ruled.  His  Avhole  code  of  criticism 
rested  on  pure  assumption,  for  Avhich  he  sometimes  quoted  a 
precedent  or  an  authority,  but  rarely  troubled  himself  to 
give  a reason  draAvn  from  the  nature  of  things.  He  took  it 
for  granted  that  the  kind  of  poetry  which  flourished  in  his 
own  time,  Avhich  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  praised 
from  his  childhood,  and  Avhich  he  had  himself  written  with 
success,  was  the  best  kind  of  poetry.  In  his  biographical 
work  he  has  repeatedly  laid  it  doAvn  as  an  undeniable  propo- 
sition that  during  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  the  earlier  part  of  the  eighteenth,  English  poetry  had 
been  in  a constant  progress  of  improvement.  Waller,  Den- 
ham, Dryden,  and  Pope,  had  been,  according  to  him,  the 
great  reformers.  He  judged  of  all  works  of  the  imagination 
by  the  standard  established  among  his  own  contemporaries. 
Though  he  allowed  Homer  to  have  been  a greater  man  than 
Virgil,  he  seems  to  have  thought  the  ^neid  a greater  poem 
than  the  Iliad.  Indeed  he  well  might  have  thought  so ; for  he 
preferred  Pope’s  Iliad  to  Homer’s.  He  pronounced  that, 
after  Hoole’s  translation  of  Tasso,  Fairfax’s  would  hardly 
be  reprinted.  He  could  see  no  merit  in  our  fine  old  Eng- 
lish ballads,  and  always  spoke  with  the  most  provoking  con- 
tempt of  Percy’s  fondness  for  them.  Of  the  great  original 
works  of  imagination  which  appeared  during  his  time, 
Richardson’s  novels  alone  excited  his  admiration.  He  could 
see  little  or  no  merit  in  Tom  Jones,  in  Gulliver’s  Travels,  or 
in  Tristram  Shandy.  To  Thomson’s  Castle  of  Indolence,  he 
vouchsafed  only  a line  of  cold  commendation,  of  commenda* 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


675 


tion  much  colder  than  Avliat  he  lias  bestowed  on  the  Creation 
of  tliat  portentous  bore,  Sir  Richard  Blackmore.  Gray  was, 
in  his  dialect,  a barren  rascal.  Churchill  was  a blockhead. 
The  contempt  which  he  felt  for  the  trash  of  Macpherson 
was  indeed  just ; but  it  was,  we  suspect,  just  by  chance. 
He  despised  the  Fingal  for  the  A^ery  reason  which  led  many 
men  of  genius  to  admire  it.  He  desj^ised  it,  not  because  it 
was  essentially  commonplace,  but  because  it  had  a super- 
ficial air  of  originality. 

He  Avas  undoubtedly  an  excellent  judge  of  compositions 
fashioned  on  his  OAvn  principles.  But  when  a deeper  ])hi- 
losophy  was  required,  when  he  undertook  to  pronounce 
judgment  on  the  Avorks  of  those  great  minds  Avdiich  “ yield 
homage  only  to  eternal  laws,”  his  failure  was  ignominious. 
He  criticized  Pope’s  Epitaphs  excellently.  But  his  observa- 
tions on  Shakspeare’s  plays  and  Milton’s  poems  seem  to  us 
for  the  most  part  as  wretched  as  if  they  had  been  Avritten  by 
Rymer  himself,  Avhom  Ave  take  to  haA^e  been  the  worst  critic 
that  CA^er  liv^ed. 

Some  of  Johnson’s  whims  on  literary  subjects  can  be 
compared  only  to  that  strange  nerA^ous  feeling  Avhich  made 
him  uneasy  if  he  had  not  touched  eA^ery  post  between  the 
Mitre  tavern  and  his  own  lodgings.  His  preference  of  Latin 
epitaphs  to  English  epitaphs  is  an  instance.  An  English 
epitaph,  he  said,  would  disgrace  Smollett.  He  declared 
that  he  would  not  pollute  the  walls  of  Westminster  Abbeys 
Avith  an  Englisii  epitaph  on  Goldsmith.  What  reason  there 
can  be  for  celebrating  a British  Avriter  in  Latin,  Avhich  there 
was  not  for  coA^ering  the  Roman  arches  of  triumph  Avith 
Greek  inscriptions,  or  for  commemorating  the  deeds  of  the 
heroes  of  Thermopylse  in  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  we  are 
utterly  unable  to  imagine. 

On  men  and  manners,  at  least  on  the  men  and  manners 
of  a particular  place  and  a particular  age,  Johnson  had  cer- 
tainly looked  with  a most  obserA^ant  and  discriminating  eye. 
His  remarks  on  the  education  of  children,  on  marriage,  on 
the  economy  of  families,  on  the  rules  of  society,  are  always 
striking,  and  generally  sound.  In  his  writings,  indeed,  the 
knowledge  of  life  which  he  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  is 
very  imperfectly  exhibited.  Like  those  unfortunate  chiefs 
of  the  middle  ages  who  Avere  suffocated  by  their  own  chain 
mail  and  cloth  of  gold,  his  maxims  perish  under  that  load 
of  Avords  Avhich  Av^as  designed  for  their  defence  and  their 
ornament  But  it  is  clear  from  the  remains  of  his  conver* 


C76 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


sation,  that  he  had  more  of  tliat  homely  wisdom  which 
nothing  but  experience  and  observation  can  give  than  any 
writer  since  the  time  of  Swift.  If  he  had  been  content  to 
write  as  he  talked,  lie  might  have  left  books  on  the  practical 
art  of  living  superior  to  the  Directions  to  Servants. 

Yet  even  his  remarks  on  society,  like  his  remarks  on 
literature,  indicate  a mind  at  least  as  remarkable  for  narrow- 
ness as  for  strength.  He  was  no  master  of  the  great  sci- 
ence of  human  nature.  He  had  studied,  not  the  genus  man, 
but  the  species  Londoner.  Nobody  was  ever  so  thoroughly 
conversant  with  all  the  forms  of  life  and  all  the  shades  of 
moral  and  intellectual  character  wliicL  were  to  be  seen  from 
Islington  to  the  Thames,  and  from  Ilyde-Park  corner  to 
Mile-end  green.  But  his  philosophy  stoj)ped  at  the  first 
turnpike-gate.  Of  the  rural  life  of  England  he  knew  noth- 
ing ; and  he  took  it  for  granted  that  everybody  who  lived 
in  the  country  was  either  stupid  or  miserable.  “ Country 
gentlemen,”  said  he,  “ must  be  unhappy : for  they  have  not 
enough  to  keep  their  lives  in  motion  ; ” as  if  all  those  pecu- 
liar habits  and  associations  which  made  Fleet  Street  and 
Charing  Cross  the  finest  view  in  the  world  to  himself  had 
been  essential  parts  of  human  nature.  Of  remote  countries 
and  past  times  he  talked  with  wild  and  ignorant  presump- 
tion. “ The  Athenians  of  the  age  of  Demosthenes,”  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Thrale,  ‘‘  were  a people  of  brutes,  a barbarous 
people.”  In  conversation  wdth  Sir  Adam  Ferguson  he  used 
similar  language.  The  boasted  Athenians,”  he  said,  “ were 
barbarians.  The  mass  of  every  people  must  be  barbarous 
where  there  is  no  printing.”  The  fact  Avas  this : he  saAV 
that  a Londoner  AA^ho  could  not  read  Avas  a very  stupid  and 
brutal  fellow : he  saAV  that  great  refinement  of  taste  and  ac- 
tmly  of  intellect  Avere  rarely  found  in  a Londoner  who  had 
not  read  much  ; and,  because  it  Avas  by  means  of  books  that 
people  acquired  almost  all  their  knowledge  in  the  society 
with  Avhich  he  was  acquainted,  he  concluded,  in  defiance  of 
the  strongest  and  clearest  eAddence,  that  the  human  mind 
can  be  cultivated  by  means  of  books  alone.  An  Athenian 
citizen  might  possess  Amry  few  volumes;  and  the  largest 
library  to  which  he  had  access  might  be  much  less  valuable 
than  Johnson’s  bookcase  in  Bolt  Court.  But  the  Athenian 
might  pass  CA^ery  morning  in  conAmrsation  Avith  Socrates, 
and  might  hear  Pericles  speak  four  or  five  times  every 
month.  He  saw  the  plays  of  Sophocles  and  Aristophanes ; 
he  walked  amidst  the  friezes  of  Phidias  and  the  paintings  of 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


I Zeuxis : he  knew  by  heart  the  choruses  of  ^schylus : he 
heard  the  rhapsodist  at  the  corner  of  the  street  reciting 
the  shield  of  Achilles  or  the  Death  of  Argus : he  was  a legis- 
lator, conversant  with  high  questions  of  alliance,  revenue, 
and  war : he  was  a soldier,  trained  under  a liberal  and  gen- 
erous discipline : he  was  a judge,  compelled  every  day  to 
weigh  the  effect  of  opposite  arguments.  These  things  were 
in  themselves  an  education,  an  education  eminently  fitted, 
not,  indeed,  to  form  exact  or  profound  thinkers,  but  to  give 
quickness  to  the  perceptions,  delicacy  to  the  taste,  fiuency 
to  the  expression,  and  politeness  to  the  manners.  All  this 
was  overlooked.  An  Athenian  who  did  not  improve  his  mind 
by  reading  was,  in  Johnson’s  opinion,  much  such  a person  as  a 
Cockney  who  made  his  mark,  much  such  a person  as  black 
Frank  before  he  went  to  school,  and  far  inferior  to  a parish 
clerk  or  a printer’s  devil. 

Johnson’s  friends  have  allowed  that  he  carried  to  a 
ridiculous  extreme  his  unjust  contempt  for  foreigners.  He 
pronounced  the  French  to  be  a very  silly  people,  much  be- 
hind us,  stupid,  ignorant  creatures.  And  this  judgment  he 
formed  after  having  been  at  Paris  about  a month,  during 
which  he  would  not  talk  French,  for  fear  of  giving  the  na- 
tives an  advantage  over  him  in  conversation.  He  pronounced 
them,  also,  to  be  an  indelicate  people,  because  a French 
footman  touched  the  sugar  with  his  fingers.  That  ingenious 
and  amusing  traveller,  M.  Simond,  has  defended  his  coun- 
trymen very  successfully  against  Johnson’s  accusation,  and 
has  pointed  out  some  English  practices  wbich,  to  an  impar- 
tial spectator,  would  seem  at  least  as  inconsistent  with  phys- 
ical cleanliness  and  social  decorum  as  those  which  Johnson 
so  bitterly  reprehended.  To  the  sage,  as  Boswell  loves  to 
call  him,  it  never  occurred  to  doubt  that  there  must  be  some- 
thing eternally  and  immutably  good  in  the  usages  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed.  In  fact,  Johnson’s  remarks  cd 
society  beyond  the  bills  of  mortality,  are  generally  of  much 
the  same  kind  with  those  of  honest  Tom  Dawson,  the  Eng- 
lish footman  in  Dr.  Moore’s  Zeluco.  ‘‘  Suppose  the  king  of 
France  has  no  sons,  but  only  a daughter,  then,  when  the 
king  dies  this  here  daughter,  according  to  that  there  law, 
cannot  be  made  queen,  but  the  next  near  relative,  provided 
he  is  a man,  is  made  king,  and  not  the  last  king’s  daughter, 
which,  to  be  sure,  is  very  unjust.  The  French  footguards 
are  dressed  in  blue,  and  all  the  marching  regiments  in  white 
which  has  a very  foolish  appearance  for  soldiers ; and  as 


678 


macaulav’b  miscellaneous  whitings. 


for  blue  regimentiils,  it  is  only  fit  for  the  blue  liorse  or  the 
artillery.” 

Johnson’s  visit  to  the  Hebrides  introduced  him  to  a 
state  of  society  comjdetely  new  to  him ; and  a salutary  sus- 
picion of  liis  OAvn  deficiencies  seems  on  that  occasion  to 
have  crossed  his  mind  for  the  first  time.  lie  confessed,  in 
the  last  paragraph  of  his  Journey,  that  his  thoughts  on 
national  manners  were  the  thoughts  of  one  who  had  seen  but 
little,  of  one  who  had  passed  his  time  almost  wholly  in 
cities.  This  feeling,  however,  soon  passed  away.  It  is  re- 
markable that  to  the  last  he  entertained  a fixed  contempt 
for  all  those  modes  of  life  and  those  studies  which  tend  to 
emaneij^ate  the  mind  from  the  prejudices  of  a particular  age 
or  a particular  nation.  Of  foreign  travel  and  of  history  he 
spoke  with  the  fierce  and  boisterous  contem])t  of  ignorance. 
‘‘What  does  a man  learn  by  travelling?  Is  Beauclerk  the 
better  for  travelling  ? What  did  Lord  Chari emont  learn  in 
his  travels,  except  that  there  Avas  a snake  in  one  of  the  pyra- 
mids of  Egypt  ? ” History  Avas,  in  his  opinion,  to  use  the 
fine  expression  of  Lord  Plunkett,  an  old  almanac : historians 
could,  as  he  conceh^cd,  claim  no  higher  dignity  than  that  of 
almanac-makers ; and  his  faA^orite  historians  Avere  those 
who,  like  Lord  Hailes,  aspired  to  no  higher  dignity.  He 
always  spoke  Avith  contemj^t  of  Robertson.  Hume  he  would 
not  CA'Cn  read.  He  affronted  one  of  his  friends  for  talking 
to  him  about  Catiline’s  conspiracy,  and  declared  that  he 
never  desired  to  hear  of  the  Punic  war  again  as  long  as  he 
lived. 

Assuredly  one  fact  Avhich  does  not  directly  affect  our 
own  interests,  considered  in  itself,  is  no  better  worth  know- 
ing than  another  fact.  The  fact  that  there  is  a snake  in  a 
pyramid,  or  the  fact  that  Hannibal  crossed  the  Alps,  are  in 
themseh' es  as  unprofitable  to  us  as  the  fact  that  there  is  a 
green  blind  in  a particular  house  in  Threadneedle  Street,  or 
the  fact  that  a Mr.  Smith  comes  into  the  city  CA^ery  morning 
on  the  top  of  one  of  the  Blackwell  stages.  But  it  is  cer- 
tain that  those  who  Avill  not  crack  the  shell  of  history  will 
never  get  at  the  kernel.  Johnson,  Avith  hasty  arrogance, 
pronounced  the  kernel  worthless,  because  he  saw  no  value  in 
the  shell.  The  real  use  of  travelling  to  distant  countries  and 
of  studying  the  annals  of  past  times  is  to  preserve  men 
from  the  contraction  of  mind  Avhich  those  can  hardly  escape 
whose  whole  communion  is  with  one  generation  and  one 
neighborhood,  who  arrive  at  conclusions  by  means  of  an  in- 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


679 


duction  not  sufficiently  copious,  and  who  therefore  con- 
stantly confound  excc])tions  with  rules,  and  accidents  with 
essential  properties.  In  short,  the  real  use  of  travelling  and 
of  studying  history  is  to  keep  men  from  being  what  Tom 
Dawson  was  in  fiction,  and  Samuel  Johnson  in  reality. 

Johnson,  as  Mr.  Burke  most  justly  observed,  appears  fai 
greater  in  Boswell’s  books  than  in  his  own.  His  conversa- 
tion appears  to  have  been  quite  equal  to  his  writings  in  mat- 
ter, and  far  superior  to  them  in  manner.  When  he  talked, 
he  clothed  his  wit  and  his  sense  in  forcible  and  natural  ex- 
pressions. As  soon  as  he  took  his  pen  in  his  hand  to  write 
for  the  public,  his  style  became  systematically  vicious.  All 
his  books  are  written  in  a learned  language,  in  a language 
which  nobody  liears  from  his  mother  or  his  nurse,  in  a lan- 
guage in  which  nobody  ever  quarrels,  or  drives  bargains,  or 
makes  love,  in  a language  in  which  nobody  ever  thinks.  It 
is  clear  that  Johnson  himself  did  not  think  in  the  dialect  in 
which  he  wrote.  The  expressions  which  came  first  to  his 
tongue  were  simple,  energetic,  and  picturesque.  When  he 
wrote  for  publication,  he  did  his  sentences  out  of  English 
into  Johnsonese.  His  letters  from  the  Hebrides  to  Mrs. 
Thrale  are  the  original  of  that  work  of  which  the  Journey 
to  the  Hebrides  is  the  translation  ; and  it  is  amusing  to  com- 
pare the  two  versions.  ‘‘  When  we  were  taken  up  stairs,” 
says  he  in  one  of  his  letters,  “ a dirty  fellow  bounced  out  of 
the  bed  on  which  one  of  us  was  to  lie.”  This  incident  is 
recorded  in  the  Journey  as  follows : “ Out  of  one  of  the 
beds  on  which  we  were  to  repose  started  up,  at  our  entrance, 
a man  black  as  a Cyclops  from  the  forge.”  Sometimes 
Johnson  translated  aloud.  The  Rehearsal,”  he  said,  very 
unjustly,  ‘‘has  not  wit  enough  to  keep  it  sweet;”  then, 
after  a pause,  “it  has  not  vitality  enough  to  preserve  it 
from  putrefaction.” 

Mannerism  is  pardonable,  and  is  sometimes  even  agree- 
able, when  the  manner,  though  vicious,  is  natural.  Few 
readers,  for  example,  would  be  willing  to  part  with  the  man- 
nerism of  Milton  or  of  Burke.  But  a mannerism  which 
does  not  sit  easy  on  the  mannerist,  which  has  been  adopted 
or.  principle,  and  which  can  be  sustained  only  by  constant 
effort,  is  always  offensive.  And  such  is  the  mannerism  of 
Johnson. 

The  characteristic  faults  of  his  style  are  so  familiar  to 
all  our  readers,  and  have  been  so  often  burlesqued,  that  it  is 
almost  supertiuous  to  point  them  out.  It  is  well  known 


680 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRIT: NOS. 


tliat  lie  made  less  use  than  any  otlier  eminent  writer  of  those 
strong  ])lain  words,  Anglo-Saxon  or  Norman-French,  of 
which  the  roots  lie  in  tlie  inmost  dc])lli8  of  our  language  ; 
and  that  he  felt  «a  vicious  partiality  for  terms  which,  long 
after  our  own  speech  had  heen  fixed,  were  borrowed  from 
tlie  Greek  and  Latin,  and  which,  therefore,  even  when  law- 
fully naturalized,  must  be  considered  as  born  aliens,  not  en- 
titled to  rank  with  the  king’s  English.  Ilis  constant  prac- 
tice of  padding  out  a sentence  with  useless  epithets,  till  it 
became  as  stift*  as  the  bust  of  an  exquisite,  his  antithetical 
forms  of  expression,  constantly  employed  even  where  there 
is  no  opposition  in  the  ideas  expressed,  his  big  words  wasted 
on  little  things,  his  harsh  inversions  so  widely  different  fi‘om 
those  graceful  and  easy  i;iversions  which  give  variety,  spirit, 
and  sweetness  to  the  expression  of  our  great  old  writers, 
all  these  peculiarities  have  been  imitated  by  his  admirers 
and  parodied  by  his  assailants,  till  the  2)ublic  has  become 
sick  of  the  subject. 

Goldsmith  said  to  him,  very  wittily  and  very  justly,  “ If 
you  were  to  'write  a fable  about  little  fishes,  doctor,  you 
would  make  the  little  fishes  talk  like  wdiales.”  No  man 
surely  ever  had  so  little  talent  for  personation  as  Johnson. 
Whether  he  wrote  in  the  character  of  a disappointed  legacy- 
hunter  or  an  empty  tOAvn  fop,  of  a crazy  virtuoso  or  a flip- 
pant coquette,  he  wrote  in  the  same  pompous  and  unbend- 
ing style.  His  speech,  like  Sir  Piercy  Shaf ton’s  Euphuistic 
eloquence,  bewrayed  him  under  every  disguise.  Euphelia 
and  Rhodoclea  talk  as  finely  as  Imlac  the  poet,  or  Seged, 
Em]3eror  of  Ethiopia.  The  gay  Cornelia  describes  her  re- 
ception at  the  country-house  of  her  relations  in  such  terms 
as  these  : “ I was  surprised,  after  the  civilities  of  my  first 
reception,  to  find,  instead  of  the  leisure  and  tranquillity 
which  a rural  life  always  promises,  and,  if  well-conducted, 
might  always  afford,  a confused  wildness  of  care,  and  a tu- 
multuous hurry  of  diligence,  by  which  every  face  was 
clouded  and  every  motion  agitated.”  The  gentle  Tranquilla 
informs  us,  that  she  ‘‘had  not  passed  the  earlier  part  of  life 
without  the  flattery  of  courtship,  and  the  joys  of  triumph  ; 
but  had  danced  the  round  of  gayety  amidst  the  murmurs  of 
envy  and  the  gratulations  of  applause,  had  been  attended 
from  pleasure  to  pleasure  by  the  great,  the  sprightly,  and 
the  vain,  and  had  seen  her  regard  solicited  by  the  obsequi- 
ousness of  gallantry,  the  gayety  of  wit,  and  the  timidity  of 
love.”  Surely  Sir  John  Falstaff  himself  did  not  wear  his 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


C81 


petticoats  with  a worse  grace.  Tlie  reader  may  well  cry  out^ 
with  honest  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  “ I like  not  when  a ’oman  has 
a great  peard  : I spy  a great  peard  under  her  muffler.”  * 

We  had  something  more  to  say.  But  our  article  is  al- 
ready too  long;  and  a ; must  close  it.  We  would  fain  part 
in  good-humor  from  ' hero,  from  the  biographer,  and 
even  from  the  editor,  who,  ill  as  he  has  performed  his  task, 
lias  at  least  this  claim  to  our  gratitude,  that  he  has  induced 
us  to  read  BosAvell’s  book  again.  As  we  close  it,  the  club- 
room  is  before  us,  and  tlie  table  on  which  stands  the  omelet 
for  Nugent,  and  the  lemons  for  Johnson.  There  are  assem- 
bled those  heads  Avhich  live  for  ever  on  the  canvas  of  Key- 
nolds.  There  are  the  spectacles  of  Burke  and  the  tall  thin 
form  of  Langton,  the  courtly  sneer  of  Beauclerk  and  the 
beaming  smile  of  Garrick,  Gibbon  tapping  his  snuff-box  and 
Sir  Joshua  with  his  trumpet  in  his  car.  In  the  foreground 
is  that  strange  figure  Avhich  is  as  familiar  to  us  as  the  figures 
of  those  among  a\  horn  Ave  have  been  brought  up,  the  gigan- 
tic body,  the  huge  massy  face,  seamed  Avith  the  scars  of 
disease,  the  broAvn  coat,  the  black  Avorsted  stockings,  the 
gray  wig  Avith  the  scorched  foretop,  the  dirty  hands,  the 
nails  bitten  and  pared  to  the  quick.  We  see  the  eyes  and 
mouth  moving  Avith  conAmlshm  twitches ; Ave  see  the  heavy 
form  rolling;  we  hear  it  puffing;  and  then  comes  the 
‘‘Why,  sir!”  and  the  “What  then,  sir?”  and  the  “ No, 
sir  ! ” and  the  “ You  don’t  see  your  Avay  through  the  ques- 
tion, sir ! ” 

What  a singular  destiny  has  been  that  of  this  remark- 
able man  ! To  be  regarded  in  his  OAvn  age  as  a classic,  and 
in  ours  as  a companion.  To  receive  from  his  contempora- 
ries that  full  homage  Avhich  men  of  genius  have  in  general 
receh^ed  only  from  posterity ! To  be  more  intimately 
known  to  posterity  than  other  men  are  known  to  their  con- 
temporaries! That  kind  of  fame  Avhich  is  commonly  the 
most  transient  is,  in  his  case,  the  most  durable.  The  repu- 
tation of  those  Avritings,  which  he  probably  expected  to  be 
immortal,  is  every  day  fading ; Avhile  those  peculiarities  of 
manner  and  that  careless  table-talk,  the  memory  of  which, 
he  probably  thought,  Avould  die  with  him,  are  likely  to  be 
remembered  as  long  as  the  English  language  is  spoken  in 
any  quarter  of  the  globe 

♦ It  ifl  proper  to  observe  that  this  passage  bears  a very  close  resemblance  to  a 
passage  in  the  Rambler  (No.  2U)»  The  resembiauc©  may  possibly  be  the  effeat 
h»conscious  plagiailem. 


682 


Macaulay’s  miscjullankoUs  wiaxusuib. 


JOHN  HAMPDEN 


{Edinburgh  Review^  December^  1831.) 


We  have  read  this  book  with  great  pleasure,  though  not 
exactly  with  that  kind  of  pleasure  which  we  had  expected. 
We  had  hoped  that  Lord  Nugent  would  have  been  able  to 
collect,  from  family  papers  and  local  traditions,  much  new 
and  interesting  information  respecting  the  life  and  charac- 
ter of  the  renowned  leader  of  the  Long  Parliament,  the  first 
of  those  great  English  commoners  whose  plain  addition  of 
Mister  has,  to  our  ears,  a more  majestic  sound  than  the 
proudest  of  feudal  titles.  In  this  hope  we  have  been  disap- 
pointed ; but  assuredly  not  from  any  want  of  zeal  or  dili- 
gence on  the  part  of  the  noble  biographer.  Even  at  Hamp- 
den, there  are,  it  seems,  no  important  papers  relating  to  the 
most  illustrious  proprietor  of  that  ancient  domain.  The 
most  valuable  memorials  of  him  which  still  exist,  belong  to 
the  family  of  his  friend.  Sir  John  Eliot.  Lord  Eliot  has 
furnished  the  portrait  which  is  engraved  for  this  work, 
together  with  some  very  interesting  letters.  The  portrait 
IS  undoubtedly  an  original,  and  probably  the  only  original 
now  in  existence.  The  intellectual  forehead,  the  mild  pene- 
tration of  the  eye,  and  the  inflexible  resolution  expressed  by 
the  lines  of  the  mouth  sufficiently  guarantee  the  likeness. 
We  shall  probably  make  some  extracts  from  the  letters. 
They  contain  almost  all  the  new  information  that  Lord 
Nugent  has  been  able  to  procure  respecting  the  private  pur- 
suits of  the  great  man  whose  memory  he  worshi]3S  with  an 
enthusiastic,  but  not  extravagant,  veneration. 

The  public  life  of  Hampden  is  surrounded  by  no  obscu- 
rity. His  history,  more  particularly  from  the  year  1640  to 
his  death,  is  the  history  of  England.  These  Memoirs  must 
be  considered  as  memoirs  of  the  history  of  England ; and,  as 
such,  they  well  deserve  to  be  attentively  perused.  They 
contain  some  curious  facts  which,  to  us  at  least,  are  new, 
much  spirited  narrative,  many  judicious  remarks,  and  much 
elo  mt  declamation. 


e are  not  sure  that  even  the  want  of  information  re- 

• Some  Memorials  of  John  HampdeU)  h%$  Pa/rtyt  mid  Ms  Times*  By  Lo»r 
IfuaKiiT.  2 v©Ji.  8vo.  Loa^ou  ; 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


683 


Bpecting  tlic  private  character  of  ITampden  is  not  in  itself 
a circumstance  as  strikingly  characteristic  as  any  wliich  the 
most  minute  chronicler,  O’Meara,  Mrs.  Thrale,  or  Boswell 
himself,  ever  recorded  concerning  their  heroes.  The  cele- 
brated Puritan  leader  is  an  almost  solitary  instance  of  a great 
man  who  neither  sought  nor  shunned  greatness,  who  found 
glory  only  because  glory  lay  in  the  plain  path  of  duty.  Dur- 
ing more  than  forty  yea2*s  he  was  known  to  his  country  neigh- 
boTS  as  a gentleman  of  cultivated  mind,  of  high  principles,  of 
polished  address,  happy  in  his  family,  and  active  in  the  dis- 
charge of  local  duties;  and  to  political  men,  as  an  honest, 
industrious,  and  sensible  member  of  Parliament,  not  eager 
to  display  his  talents,  staunch  to  his  party,  and  attentive  to 
the  interests  of  his  constituents.  A great  and  terrible  crisis 
came.  A direct  attack  was  made  by  an  arbitrary  govern- 
ment on  a sacred  right  of  Englishmen,  on  a right  which  was 
tlje  chief  security  for  all  their  other  rights.  The  nation 
looked  round  for  a defender.  Calmly  and  unostentatiously 
the  plain  Buckinghamshire  Esquire  placed  himself  at  the 
liead  of  his  countrymen,  and  right  before  the  face  and  across 
the  path  of  tyranny.  The  times  grew  darker  and  more 
troubled.  Public  service,  perilous,  arduous,  delicate,  was 
required ; and  to  every  service  the  intellect  and  the  courage 
of  this  wonderful  man  were  found  fully  equal.  lie  became 
a debater  of  the  first  order,  a most  dexterous  manager  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  a negotiator,  a soldier.  He  governed 
a fierce  and  turbulent  assembly,  abounding  in  able  men,  as 
easily  as  he  had  governed  his  family.  He  showed  himself 
as  competent  to  direct  a campaign  as  to  conduct  the  busi- 
ness of  the  petty  sessions.  We  can  scarcely  express  the 
admiration  which  we  feel  for  a mind  so  great,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  so  healthful  and  so  well  proportioned,  so  willingly 
contracting  itself  to  the  humblest  duties,  so  easily  expand- 
ing itself  to  the  highest,  so  contented  in  repose,  so  powerful 
in  action.  Almost  every  part  of  this  virtuous  and  blameless 
life  which  is  not  hidden  from  us  in  modest  privacy  is  a pre- 
cious and  splendid  portion  of  our  national  history.  Had 
the  private  conduct  of  Hampden  afforded  the  slightest  pre- 
tence for  censure,  he  would  have  been  assailed  by  the  same 
blind  malevolence  which,  in  defiance  of  the  clearest  proofs, 
still  continues  to  call  Sir  John  Eliot  an  assassin.  Had  there 
been  even  any  weak  part  in  the  character  of  Hampden,  had 
his  manners  been  in  any  respect  open  to  ridicule,  we  may  be 
Bure  tl  at  no  mercy  would  have  been  shown  to  him  by  the 


084  macaulay^s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

wT-itcrs  of  Charles’s  faction.  Those  writers  have  carefully 
])reserved  every  little  circuinstance  which  could  tend  to  make 
their  o])[)oneiits  odious  or  contcunptible.  They  have  made 
themselves  merry  with  the  cant  of  injudicious  zealots.  They 
have  told  us  that  Pym  broke  down  in  a speech,  that  Ireton 
had  his  nose  pulled  by  Hollis,  that  the  Earl  of  Northumber- 
land cudgelled  Henry  Marten,  that  St.  John’s  manners  were 
sullen,  that  Vane  had  an  ugly  face,  that  Cromwell  had  a 
red  nose.  But  neither  the  artful  Clarendon  nor  the  scurril- 
ous Deidiarn  could  venture  to  throw  the  slightest  imputation 
on  tiie  morals  or  the  manners  of  Hampden.  What  was  the 
opinion  entertained  respecting  him  by  the  best  men  of  his 
time,  we  learn  from  Baxter.  That  eminent  person,  eminent 
not  only  for  his  piety  and  his  fervid  devotional  eloquence, 
but  for  his  moderation,  his  knowledge  of  political  affairs,  and 
his  skill  in  judging  of  characters,  declared  in  the  Saint’s 
Rest  that  one  of  the  pleasures  which  he  hoped  to  enjoy  in 
heaven  was  the  society  of  Hampden.  In  the  editions  printed 
after  the  Restoration,  the  name  of  Hampden  was  omit- 
ted. ‘‘But  I must  tell  the  reader,”  says  Baxter,  “that  I 
did  blot  it  out,  not  as  changing  my  opinion  of  the  person. 
* * * * John  Hampden  was  one  that  friends  and 

enemies  acknowledged  to  be  most  eminent  for  prudence, 
piety,  and  peaceable  counsels,  having  the  most  universal 
praise  of  any  gentleman  that  I remember  of  that  age.  I 
remember  a moderate,  prudent,  aged  gentleman,  far  from 
him,  but  acquainted  with  him,  whom  I have  heard  saying, 
that  if  he  might  choose  Avhat  person  he  would  be  then  in 
the  world,  he  would  be  John  Ilampden.”  We  cannot  but 
regret  that  we  have  not  fuller  memorials  of  a man  who, 
after  passing  through  the  most  severe  temptations  by  which 
human  virtue  can  be  tried,  after  acting  a most  conspicuous 
])art  in  a revolution  and  a civil  war,  could  yet  deserve  such 
praise  as  this  from  such  authority.  Yet  the  want  of  memo- 
rials is  surely  the  best  proof  that  liatred  itself  could  find  no 
blemish  on  his  memory. 

The  story  of  his  early  life  is  soon  told.  He  was  the  head 
of  a family  which  had  been  settled  in  Buckinghamshire 
before  the  Conquest.  Part  of  the  estate  which  he  inherited 
had  been  bestowed  by  Edward  the  Confessor  on  Baldwyn 
de  Hampden,  whose  name  seems  to  indicate  that  he  was  one 
of  the  Norman  favorites  of  the  last  Saxon  king.  During  the 
contest  between  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster,  the 
llampdens  adhered  to  tlie  party  of  the  Red  Rose,  and  were, 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


685 


consequently,  persecuted  by  Edward  the  Fourth,  and  favored 
by  Henry  tlie  Seventh.  Under  tlie  Tudoi's,  the  family  was 
great  and  flourisliing.  Griffith  IIam])den,  high  sheriff  of 
Buckinghamsiiire,  entertained  Elizabeth  with  great  magnifi- 
cence at  his  seat.  His  son,  William  Hampden,  sat  in  the 
Parliament  which  that  Queen  summoned  in  the  year  1593. 
William  married  Elizabeth  Cromwell,  aunt  of  the  celebrated 
man  who  afterward  governed  the  British  islands  with  more 
than  regal  power;  and  from  this  marriage  sprang  John 
Hampden. 

He  was  born  in  1594.  In  1597  his  father  died,  and  left 
him  heir  to  a very  large  estate.  After  passing  some  years 
at  the  grammar  school  of  Thame,  young  Hampden  was  sent, 
at  fifteen,  to  Magdalene  College,  in  the  University  of  Ox- 
ford. At  nineteen,  he  was  admitted  a student  of  the  Inner 
Temple,  where  he  made  himself  master  of  the  principles  of 
the  English  law.  In  1619,  he  married  Elizabeth  Symeon,  a 
lady  to  whom  he  appears  to  have  been  fondly  attached.  In 
the  following  year  he  was  returned  to  parliament  by  a 
borough  which  has  in  our  time  obtained  a miserable  celeb- 
rity, the  borough  of  Grampound. 

Of  his  private  life  during  his  early  years  little  is  known 
beyond  what  Clarendon  has  told  us.  ‘‘  In  his  entrance  into 
the  world,”  says  that  great  historian,  ‘‘  he  indulged  himself 
in  all  the  license  in  sports,  and  exercises,  and  company,  which 
were  used  by  men  of  the  most  jolly  conversation.”  A re- 
markable change,  however,  passed  on  his  character.  “ On  a 
sudden,”  says  Clarendon,  ‘‘  from  a life  of  great  pleasure  and 
license,  he  retired  to  extraordinary  sobriety  and  strictness,  to 
a more  reserved  and  melancholy  society.”  It  is  probable 
that  this  change  took  place  when  Hampden  was  about  twen- 
ty-five  years  old.  At  that  age  he  was  united  to  a woman 
whom  he  loved  and  esteemed.  At  that  age  he  entered  into 
political  life.  A mind  so  happily  constituted  as  his  would 
naturally,  under  such  circumstances,  relinquish  the  pleasures 
of  dissipation  for  domestic  enjoyments  and  public  duties. 

His  enemies  have  allowed  that  he  was  a man  in  whom 
virtue  showed  itself  in  its  mildest  and  least  austere  form 
With  the  morals  of  a Puritan,  he  had  the  manners  of  an  ao 
complished  courtier.  Even  after  the  change  in  his  habits,. 
‘‘  he  preserved,”  says  Clarendon,  “ his  own  natural  cheerful- 
ness and  vivacity,  and,  above  all,  a flowing  courtesy  to  ah 
men.”  These  qualities  distinguished  him  from  most  of  the 
members  of  his  sect  and  his  party,  and,  in  the  great  crisis  in 


libIG  macaulay'b  miscellaneous  ^tuitings. 

wliich  lie  afterward  took  a j)riiicij>al  ]>art,  were  of  scarce]} 
less  service  to  the  country  than  his  keen  sagacity  and  liis 
dauntless  courage. 

In  January,  1621,  Hampden  took  liis  seat  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  His  mother  was  exceedingly  desirous  that 
her  son  should  obtain  a peerage.  His  family,  his  posses- 
sions, and  his  personal  accomplishments  were  such  as  would, 
in  any  age,  have  justified  liim  in  pretending  to  that  honor. 
But  in  the  reign  of  James  the  First  there  was  one  short  cut 
to  the  House  of  Lords.  It  was  but  to  ask,  to  pay,  and  to 
have.  The  sale  of  titles  was  carried  on  as  openly  as  the  sale 
of  boroughs  in  our  times.  Hampden  turned  away  with  con- 
tempt from  the  degrading  lionors  with  which  his  family 
desired  to  see  him  invested,  and  attached  himself  to  the 
party  which  was  in  opposition  to  the  court. 

It  was  about  this  time,  as  Lord  Nugent  has  justly  re- 
marked, that  parliamentary  opposition  began  to  take  a 
regular  form.  From  a very  early  age,  the  English  had 
enjoyed  a far  larger  share  of  liberty  than  had  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  any  neighboring  people.  How  it  chanced  that  a 
country  conquered  and  enslaved  by  invaders,  a country  of 
which  the  soil  had  been  portioned  out  among  foreign  adven- 
turers, and  of  which  the  laws  were  written  in  a foreign 
tongue,  a country  given  over  to  that  worst  tyranny,  the 
tyranny  of  caste  over  caste,  should  have  become  the  seat  of 
civil  liberty,  the  object  of  the  admiration  and  envy  of  sur- 
rounding states,  is  one  of  the  most  obscure  problems  in  the 
philosophy  of  history.  But  the  fact  is  certain.  Within  a 
century  and  a half  after  the  Norman  conquest,  the  Great 
Charter  was  conceded.  Within  two  centuries  after  the 
Conquest,  the  first  House  of  Commons  met.  Froissart  tells 
us,  what  indeed  his  whole  narrative  sufficiently  proves,  that, 
of  all  the  nations  of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  English 
were  the  least  disposed  to  endure  oppression.  “ C’est  le 
plus  perilleux  peuple  qui  soit  au  monde,  et  plus  outrageux 
et  orgueilleux.”  The  good  canon  probably  did  not  perceive 
that  all  the  prosperity  and  internal  peace  which  this  danger- 
ous people  enjoyed  were  the  fruits  of  the  spirit  which  he 
designates  as  proud  and  outrageous.  He  has,  however, 
borne  ample  testimony  to  the  effect,  though  he  was  not 
sagacious  enough  to  trace  it  to  its  cause.  “ En  le  royaume 
d’Angleterre,”  says  he,  ‘‘  toutes  gens,  laboreurs  et  marchands, 
ont  appris  de  vivre  en  paix,  et  a mener  leurs  marchandises 
paieiblement,  et  les  laboreurs  laborer.”  In  the  fifteenth 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


087 


century,  though  England  was  convulsed  by  the  struggle 
between  the  two  branches  of  the  royal  family,  the  physical 
and  moral  condition  of  the  people  continued  to  improve. 
Villenage  almost  wholly  disappeared.  The  calamities  of 
war  were  little  felt,  except  by  those  who  bore  arms.  The 
oppressions  of  the  government  were  little  felt,  except  by 
the  aristocracy.  The  institutions  of  the  country,  when  com- 
pared with  the  institutions  of  the  neighboring  kingdoms, 
seem  to  have  been  not  undeserving  of  the  praises  of  For- 
tescue.  The  government  of  Edward  the  Fourth,  though  we 
call  it  cruel  and  arbitrary,  was  humane  and  liberal  when 
compared  with  that  of  Lewis  che  Eleventh,  or  that  of  Charles 
the  Bold.  Complies,  who  had  lived  amidst  the  wealthy  cities 
of  Flanders,  and  who  had  visited  Florence  and  Venice,  had 
never  seen  a people  so  well  governed  as  the  English.  “ Or 
selon  mon  advis,”  says  he,  ‘‘  entre  toutes  les  seigneuries  du 
monde,  dont  j’ay  connoissance,  ou  la  chose  publique  est 
mieulx  traitee,  et  ou  regne  moins  de  violence  sur  le  peuple, 
et  ou  il  n’y  an  uls  edifices  abbatus  ny  demolis  pour  guerre, 
e’est  Angleterre ; et  tombe  le  sort  et  le  malheur  sur  ceulx 
qui  font  la  guerre.” 

About  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  and  the  commencement 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  a great  portion  of  the  influence 
which  the  aristocracy  had  possessed  passed  to  the  crown. 
No  English  king  has  ever  enjoyed  such  absolute  power  as 
Hejiry  the  Eighth.  But  while  the  royal  prerogatives  were 
acquiring  strength  at  the  expense  of  the  nobility,  two  great 
revolutions  took  place,  destined  to  be  the  parents  of  many 
revolutions,  the  invention  of  Printing,  and  the  reformation  of 
the  Church. 

The  immediate  effect  of  the  Reformation  in  England 
was  by  no  means  favorable  to  political  liberty.  The  author- 
ity which  had  been  exercised  by  the  Popes  w^as  transferred 
almost  entire  to  the  King.  Two  formidable  powers  which 
had  often  served  to  check  each  other  were  united  in  a single 
despot.  If  the  system  on  which  the  founders  of  the  Church 
of  England  acted  could  have  been  permanent,  the  Reforma- 
tion would  have  been,  in  a political  sense,  the  greatest  curse 
that  ever  fell  on  our  country.  But  that  system  carried 
within  it  the  seeds  of  its  own  death.  It  was  possible  to 
transfer  the  name  of  Head  of  the  Church  from  Clement  to 
Henry ; but  it  was  impossible  to  transfer  to  the  new  estab- 
lishment the  veneration  which  the  old  establishment  had  in- 
spired, Mankind  had  not  broken  one  yoke  in  pieces  only 


688 


MACAULAY  S MTSCELLANKOUS  WUTTINCS, 


in  order  to  put  on  another.  The  Bupremacy  of  the  Bishop 
of  Rome  had  been  for  ages  considered  as  a fundamental 
principle  of  Christianity.  It  liad  for  it  everything  that 
could  make  a prejudice  deep  and  strong,  venerable  antiq- 
uity, high  autliority,  general  consent.  It  liad  been  taught 
in  the  first  lessons  of  the  nurse.  It  was  taken  for  granted 
in  all  the  exhortations  of  the  priest.  To  remove  it  was  to 
break  innumerable  associations,  and  to  give  a great  and 
perilous  shock  to  tlie  principles.  Yet  this  prejudice,  strong 
as  it  was,  could  not  stand  in  tlie  great  day  of  the  deliver- 
ance of  the  human  reason.  And  it  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  the  public  mind,  just  after  freeing  itself  by  an  unexam- 
pled effort,  from  a bondage  which  it  had  endured  for  ages, 
would  patiently  submit  to  a tyranny  which  could  ])lead  no 
ancient  title.  Rome  liad  at  least  prescription  on  its  side. 
But  Protestant  intolerance,  despotism  in  an  upstart  sect,  inr 
fallibility  claimed  by  guides  who  acknowledge  that  they  had 
passed  the  greater  part  of  their  lives  in  error,  restraints  im- 
posed on  the  liberty  of  private  judgment  at  the  pleasure  of 
rulers  who  could  vindicate  their  own  proceedings  only  by 
asserting  the  liberty  of  private  judgment,  these  things  could 
not  long  be  borne.  Those  who  had  pulled  down  the  cruci- 
fix could  not  long  continue  to  persecute  for  the  surplice. 
It  required  no  great  sagacity  to  perceive  the  inconsistency 
and  dishonesty  of  men  who,  dissenting  from  almost  all 
Christendom,  would  suffer  none  to  dissent  from  themselves, 
who  demanded  freedom  of  conscience,  yet  refused  to  grant 
it,  who  execrated  persecution,  yet  persecuted,  who  urged 
reason  against  the  authority  of  one  opponent,  and  authority 
against  the  reasons  of  another.  Bonner  acted  at  least  in 
accordance  with  his  own  principles.  Cranmer  could  vin* 
dicate  himself  from  the  charge  of  being  a heretic  only  by 
arguments  which  made  him  out  to  be  a murderer. 

Thus  the  system  on  which  the  English  Princes  acted 
with  respect  to  ecclesiastical  affairs  for  some  time  after  the 
Reformation  was  a system  too  obviously  unreasonable  to  be 
lasting.  The  public  mind  moved  while  the  government 
moved,  but  would  not  stop  where  the,  government  stopped. 
The  same  impulse  which  had  carried  millions  away  from  the 
Church  of  Rome  continued  to  carry  them  forward  in  the 
same  direction.  As  Catholics  had  become  Protestants,  Pro- 
testants became  Puritans ; and  the  Tudors  and  Stuarts  were 
as  unable  to  avert  the  latter  change  as  the  Popes  had  been 
to  avert  the  former^  The  dissenting  party  increased  and 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


68& 


became  strong  under  every  kind  of  discouragement  and 
oppression.  They  were  a sect.  The  government  perse- 
cuted them  ; and  they  became  an  opposition.  The  old  con- 
stitution of  England  furnished  to  them  the  means  of  resist- 
ing the  sovereign  without  breaking  the  law.  They  were  the 
majority  of  the  House  of  Commons.  They  liad  liie  power  of 
giving  or  withholding  supplies ; and,  by  a judicious  exercise 
of  this  power,  they  might  hope  to  take  from  the  Church  its 
usurped  authority  over  the  consciences  of  men,  and  from  the 
Crown  some  part  of  the  vast  prerogative  which  it  had  re- 
cently acquired  at  the  expense  of  the  nobles  and  of  the 
I^ope. 

The  faint  beginnings  of  tliis  memorable  contest  may  be 
discerned  early  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  The  conduct  of 
her  last  Parliament  made  it  clear  that  one  of  those  great 
revolutions  which  policy  may  guide  but  cannot  stop  was  in 
progress.  It  was  on  the  question  of  monopolies  that  the 
House  of  Commons  gained  its  first  great  victory  over  the 
Throne.  The  conduct  of  the  extraordinary  woman  who 
then  governed  England  is  an  admirable  study  for  politicians 
who  live  in  unquiet  times.  It  shows  how  thoroughly  she  un- 
derstood the  people  Avhom  she  ruled,  and  the  crisis  in  which 
she  was  called  to  act.  What  she  held  she  held  firmly. 
What  she  gave  she  gave  graciously.  She  saw  that  it  was 
necessary  to  make  a concession  to  the  nation;  and  she  made 
it,  not  grudgingly,  not  tardily,  not  as  a matter  of  bargain  and 
sale,  not,  in  a word,  as  Charles  the  First  would  have  made  it, 
but  promptly  and  cordially.  Before  a bill  could  be  framed  or 
an  address  presented,  she  applied  a remedy  to  the  evil  of 
which  the  nation  complained.  She  expressed  in  the  warm- 
est terms  her  gratitude  to  her  faithful  Commons  for  detect- 
ing abuses  which  interested  persons  had  concealed  from  her. 
If  her  successors  had  inherited  her  wisdom  with  her  Crewm 
Charles  the  First  might  have  died  of  old  age,  and  James  the 
Second  would  never  have  seen  St.  Germain’s. 

She  died ; and  the  kingdom  passed  to  one  who  was,  in 
his  own  opinion,  the  greatest  master  of  king-craft  that  ever 
lived,  but  who  was  in  truth  one  of  those  kings  whom  God 
seems  to  send  for  the  express  purpose  of  hastening  revolu- 
tions. Of  all  the  enemies  of  liberty  whom  Britain  has  pro- 
duced, he  was  at  once  the  most  harmless  and  the  most  pro- 
voking. His  office  resembled  that  of  the  man  who,  in 
a Spanish  bull-fight,  goads  the  torpid  savage  to  fury,  by 
shaking  a red  rag  in  the  air^  and  by  now  and  then  throwing 
VoL.  I>“44 


690 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wbitings. 


a dart  sharp  enougli  to  sting,  but  too  small  to  injure.  Tho  1 
policy  of  wise  tyrants  has  always  been  to  cover  their  violent  I 
acts  with  popular  forms.  James  was  always  obtruding  his  1 
despotic  theories  on  his  subjects  without  the  slightest  neces-  i 
sity.  Ilis  foolish  talk  exasperated  them  infinitely  more  than 
forced  loans  or  benevolences  would  have  done.  Yet,  in  prac- 
tice, no  king  ever  held  his  prerogatives  less  tenaciously.  He 
neither  gave  away  gracefully  to  the  advancing  spirit  ot 
liberty  nor  took  vigorous  measures  to  stop  it,  but  retreated  | 
before  it  with  ludicrous  haste,  blustering  and  insulting  as  ho  1- 
retreated.  The  English  people  had  been  governed  during  I 
near  a hundred  and  fifty  years  by  Princes  who,  whatever  | 

might  be  their  frailties  or  their  vices,  had  all  possessed  great  | 

force  of  character,  and  who,  whether  beloved  or  hated,  had  i 
always  been  feared.  Now,  at  length,  for  the  first  time  since  j 
the  day  Avhen  the  sceptre  of  Henry  the  Fourth  dropped  | 
from  the  hand  of  his  lethargic  grandson,  England  had  a | 
king  whom  she  despised.  ^ 

The  follies  and  vices  of  the  man  increased  the  contempt  | 

which  was  produced  by  the  feeble  policy  of  the  sovereign.  | 

The  indecorous  gallantries  of  the  Court,  the  habits  of  gross  | 

intoxication  in  which  even  the  ladies  indulged,  were  alone  | 

sufficient  to  disgust  a people  whose  manners  were  beginning  j 

to  be  strongly  tinctured  with  austerity.  But  these  were  | 

trifles.  Crimes  of  the  most  frightful  kind  had  been  discov-  f 

ered ; others  were  suspected.  The  strange  story  of  the  { 

Cowries  was  not  forgotten.  The  ignominious  fondness  of  j i 

the  King  for  his  minions,  the  perjuries,  the  sorceries,  the  | 

poisonings,  which  his  chief  favorites  had  planned  wdthin  the  i> 

walls  of  his  palace,  the  pardon  which,  in  direct  violation  of  | 

his  duty  and  of  his  word,  he  had  granted  to  the  mysterious  | 

threats  of  a murderer,  made  him  an  object  of  loathing  to  | 

many  of  his  subjects.  What  opinion  grave  and  moral  per-  | 

eons  residing  at  a distance  from  the  Court  entertained  re- 
epecting  him,  we  learn  from  Mrs.  Hutchinson’s  Memoirs.  | 

England  was  no  place,  the  seventeenth  century  no  time,  | 

for  Sporus  and  Locusta.  I 

This  was  not  all.  The  most  ridiculous  weaknesses  seemed  | 
to  meet  in  the  wretched  Solomon  of  Whitehall,  pedantry,  1 
buffoonery,  garrulity,  low  curiosity,  the  most  contemptible 
personal  cowardice.  Nature  and  education  had  done  their  | 

best  to  moduce  a finished  specimen  of  all  that  a king  ought  ^ 

to  be.  His  awkward  figure,  his  rolling  eye,  his  rickety  walk,  q 

his  nerv(^u8  tremblings,  his  slobbering  mouth,  his  broad  | 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


6&1 


Scotch  accent,  were  imperfections  which  miglit  have  been 
found  in  the  best  and  greatest  man.  Their  effect,  liowever, 
was  to  make  James  and  liis  office  objects  of  contempt,  and 
to  dissolve  those  associations  which  had  been  created  by 
the  noble  bearing  of  preceding  monarchs,  and  which  were 
in  themselves  no  inconsiderable  fence  to  royalty. 

The  sovereign  whom  James  most  resembled  was,  we 
think,  Claudius  Caesar.  Both  had  the  same  feeble  vacillating 
temper,  the  same  childishness,  the  same  coarseness,  the  same 
poltroonery.  Both  were  men  of  learning;  both  wrote  and 
spoke,  not,  indeed,  well,  but  still  in  a manner  in  which  it 
seems  almost  incredible  that  men  so  foolish  should  have 
written  or  spoken.  The  follies  and  indecencies  of  James 
are  well  described  in  the  w^ords  which  Suetonius  uses  re- 
specting Claudius : Multa  talia,  etiam  privatis  deformia, 

nedum  principi,  neque  infacundo,  neque  indocto,  immo 
etiam  pertinaciter  liberalibus  studiis  dedito.”  The  descrip- 
tion given  by  Suetonius  of  the  manner  in  which  the  Roman 
prince  transacted  business  exactly  subs  the  Briton.  “In 
cognoscend^  ac  decernendo  mira  varietate  animi  fuit,  modo 
circumspectus  et  sagax,  modo  inconsultus  ac  praeceps,  non- 
nunquam  frivolus  amentique  similis.”  Claudius  was  ruled 
successively  by  two  bad  women  : James  successively  by  two 
bad  men.  Even  the  description  of  the  person  of  Claudius, 
which  we  find  in  the  ancient  memoirs,  might,  in  many  points, 
serve  for  that  of  James.  “ Ceterum  et  ingredientum  des- 
tituebant  poplites  minus  firmi,  et  remisse  quid  vel  serio 
agentem  multa  dehonestabant,  risus  indecens,  ira  turpior, 
spumante  rictu,  praeterea  linguaB  titubantia.” 

The  Parliament  which  James  had  called  soon  after  his 
accession  had  been  refractory.  Ilis  second  Parliament, 
called  in  the  spring  of  1614,  had  been  more  refractory  still. 
It  had  been  dissolved  after  a session  of  two  months ; and 
during  six  years  the  King  had  governed  without  having  re- 
course to  the  legislature.  During  those  six  years,  melan- 
choly and  disgraceful  events,  at  home  and  abroad,  had  fol- 
lowed one  another  in  rapid  succession ; the  divorce  of  Lady 
Essex,  the  murder  of  Overbury,  the  elevation  of  Villiers, 
the  pardon  of  Somerset,  the  disgrace  of  Coke,  the  execution 
of  Raleigh,  the  battle  of  Prague,  the  invasion  of  the  Pala- 
tinate by  Spinola,  the  ignominious  flight  of  the  son-in-law  of 
the  English  king,  the  depression  of  tlie  Protestant  interest 
all  over  the  continent.  All  the  extraordinary  modes  by 
which  James  could  venture  to  raise  money  had  been  tried. 


m 


Macaulay’s  miscella^?£ous  writings. 


ITis  necessities  were  greater  tlian  ever ; and  lie  was  com- 
pelled to  summon  tlie  Parliament  in  which  llamjiden  lirst 
a])j)eared  as  a jmblic  man. 

This  Parli-ament  lasted  about  twelve  months.  During 
that  time  it  visited  with  deserved  punislirnent  several  of 
those  who,  during  the  preceding  six  years,  had  enriched 
themselves  by  peculation  and  monopoly.  Michell,  one  of 
the  grasping  patentees  who  had  purchased  of  tlie  favorite 
tlie  ])ower  of  robbing  the  nation,  w^as  fined  and  imprisoned 
for  life.  Mompesson,  the  original,  it  is  said,  of  Massinger’s 
Overreach,  was  outlawed  and  deprived  of  his  ill-gotten 
wealth.  Even  Sir  Edward  Villiers,  the  brother  of  Buck- 
ingham, found  it  convenient  to  leave  England.  A greater 
name  is  to  be  added  to  the  ignominious  list.  By  this  Par- 
liament was  brought  to  justice  that  illustrious  philosopher 
whose  memory  genius  has  half  redeemed  from  the  infamy 
due  to  servility,  to  ingratitude,  and  to  corruption. 

After  redressing  internal  grievances,  the  Commons  pro- 
ceeded to  take  into  consideration  the  state  of  Europe.  The 
King  flew  into  a rage  with  them  for  meddling  with  such 
matters,  and,  with  characteristic  judgment,  drew  them  into 
a controversy  about  the  origin  of  their  House  and  of  its 
privileges.  When  he  found  he  could  not  convince  them,  he 
dissolved  them  in  a passion,  and  sent  some  of  the  leaders  of 
the  Opposition  to  ruminate  on  his  logic  in  prison. 

During  the  time  which  elapsed  between  this  dissolution 
and  the  meeting  of  the  next  Parliament,  took  place  the  cele- 
brated negotiation  respecting  the  Infanta.  The  wmuld-be 
despot  was  unmercifully  browbeaten.  The  would-be  Solo- 
mon was  ridiculously  overreached.  Steenie,  in  spite  of  the 
begging  and  sobbing  of  his  dear  dad  and  gossip,  carried  off 
baby  Charles  in  triumph  to  Madrid.  The  sweet  lads,  as 
James  called  them,  came  back  safe,  but  without  their  er- 
rand. The  great  master  of  king-craft,  in  looking  for  a 
Spanish  match,  had  found  a Spanish  war.  In  February, 
1624,  a Parliament  met,  during  the  w^hole  sitting  of  which, 
James  was  a mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of  his  baby,  and  of 
his  poor  slave  and  dog.  The  Commons  were  disposed  to 
support  the  King  in  the  vigorous  policy  which  his  favorite 
urged  him  to  adopt.  But  they  were  not  disposed  to  place 
any  confidence  in  their  feeble  sovereign  and  his  dissolute 
courtiers,  or  to  relax  in  their  efforts  to  remove  public  griev- 
ances. They  therefore  lodged  the  money  which  they  voted 
for  the  war  in  the  hands  of  Parliamentary  Commissioners. 


iiampbuk-. 


693 


They  impeached  the  treasurer,  Lord  Middlesex,  for  corrup- 
tion, and  they  passed  a bill  l)y  wliicli  patents  of  monopoly 
'were  declared  illegal. 

Hampden  did  not,  during  the  reign  of  James,  take  any 
prominent  part  in  public  affairs.  It  is  certain,  however, 
that  ho  paid  great  attention  to  the  details  of  Parliamentary 
business,  and  to  the  local  interests  of  his  own  country.  It 
was  in  a great  measure  owing  to  his  exertions  that  Wend- 
over  and  some  other  boroughs  on  which  the  popular  party 
could  depend  recovered  the  elective  franchise,  in  spite  of 
the  opposition  of  the  Court. 

The  health  of  the  King  had  for  some  time  been  declin- 
ing. On  the  twenty-seventh  of  March,  1625,  he  expired. 
Under  his  weak  rule,  the  spirit  of  liberty  had  grown  strong, 
and  had  become  equal  to  a great  contest.  The  contest  was 
brought  on  by  the  policy  of  his  successor.  Charles  bore  no 
resemblance  to  his  father.  lie  was  not  a driveller,  or  a 
])endant,  or  a buffoon,  or  a coward.  It  would  be  absurd  to 
deny  that  he  was  a scholar  and  a gentleman,  a man  of  ex- 
quisite taste  in  the  fine  arts,  a man  of  strict  morals  in  private 
life.  His  talents  for  business  were  respectable;  his  de- 
meanor was  kingly.  But  he  was  false,  imperious,  obstinate, 
narrow-minded,  ignorant  of  the  temper  of  his  people,  unob- 
servant of  the  signs  of  his  times.  The  whole  principle  of  his 
government  was  resistance  to  public  opinion ; nor  did  he 
make  any  real  concession  to  that  opinion  till  it  mattered  not 
whether  he  resisted  or  conceded,  till  the  nation,  which  had 
long  ceased  to  love  him  or  to  trust  him,  had  at  last  ceased 
to  fear  him. 

His  first  Parliament  met  in  June,  1625.  Hampden  sat 
in  it  as  burgess  for  Wendover.  The  King  wished  for 
money.  The  Commons  wished  for  the  redress  of  grievances. 
The  war,  however,  could  not  be  carried  on  without  funds , 
The  plan  of  the  Opposition  was,  it  should  seem,  to  dole  out 
supplies  by  small  sums,  in  order  to  prevent  a speedy  disso- 
lution. They  gave  the  King  two  subsidies  only,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  complain  that  his  ships  had  been  employed  against 
the  Huguenots  in  Prance,  and  to  petition  in  behalf  of  the 
Puritans  who  were  persecuted  in  England.  The  King  dis- 
solved them,  and  raised  money  by  Letters  under  his  Privy 
Seal.  The  supply  fell  far  short  of  what  he  needed ; and  in 
the  spring  of  1626,  he  called  together  another  Parliament. 
In  this  Parliament  Hampden  again  sat  for  Wendover. 

The  Commons  resolved  to  grant  a very  liberal  supply, 


694  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

but  to  defer  the  final  passing  of  the  act  for  that  purjyos  till 
the  grievances  of  the  nation  sliould  he  redressed.  The 
struggle  which  followed  far  exceeded  in  violence  any  that 
had  yet  taken  place.  The  Commons  impeached  Bucking- 
ham. The  King  threw  the  managers  of  the  impeachment 
into  prison.  The  Commons  denied  the  right  of  the  King  to 
levy  tonnage  and  poundage  without  their  consent.  The 
King  dissolved  them.  They  put  forth  a remonstrance.  The 
King  circulated  a declaration  vindicating  his  measures,  and 
committed  some  of  the  most  distinguished  members  of  the 
Opposition  to  close  custody.  Money  was  raised  by  a forced 
loan,  which  was  apportioned  among  the  people  according 
to  the  rate  at  which  they  had  been  respectively  assessed  to 
to  the  last  subsidy.  On  this  occasion  it  was,  that  Hampden 
made  his  first  stand  for  the  fundamental  principle  of  the 
English  constitution.  He  positively  refused  to  lend  a far- 
thing. He  was  required  to  give  his  reasons.  He  answered, 
“ that  he  could  be  content  to  lend  as  well  as  others,  but 
feared  to  draw  upon  himself  that  curse  in  Magna  Charta 
which  should  be  read  twice  a year  against  those  who  infringe 
it.”  For  this  spirited  answer,  the  Privy  Council  committed 
him  close  prisoner  to  the  Gate  House.  After  some  time,  he 
was  again  brought  up  ; but  he  persisted  in  his  refusal,  and 
was  sent  to  a place  of  confinement  in  Hampshire. 

The  government  went  on,  oppressing  at  home,  and 
blundering  in  all  its  measures  abroad.  A war  was  foolishly 
undertaken  against  France,  and  more  foolishly  conducted. 
Buckingham  led  an  expedition  against  Rhe,  and  failed 
ignominiously.  In  the  mean  time  soldiers  were  billeted  on 
the  people.  Crimes  of  which  ordinary  justice  should  have 
taken  cognizance  were  punished  by  martial  law.  Near 
eighty  gentlemen  were  imprisoned  for  refusing  to  contribute 
to  the  forced  loan.  The  lower  people  who  showed  any 
signs,  of  insubordination  were  pressed  into  the  fleet,  or  com- 
pelled to  serve  in  the  army.  Money,  however,  came  in 
slowly ; and  the  King  was  compelled  to  summon  another 
Parliament.  In  the  hope  of  conciliating  his  subjects,  he  set 
at  liberty  the  persons  who  had  been  imprisoned  for  refusing 
to  comply  with  his  unlawful  demands.  Hampden  regained 
his  freedom,  and  was  immediately  re^-elected  burgess  for 
Wendover. 

Early  in  1628  the  Parliament  met.  During  its  first  ses- 
sion, the  Commons  prevailed  on  the  King,  after  many  delays 
and  much  equivocation,  to  give,  in  return  for  five  subsidies, 


JOHN  UAMPDEK. 


695 


his  full  an(l  solemn  assent  to  that  celebrated  instrument,  the 
second  great  charter  of  the  liberties  of  England,  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Petition  of  Right.  By  agreeing  to  tliis  act, 
the  King  bound  himself  to  raise  no  taxes  without  the  con- 
sent of  Parliament,  to  imprison  no  man  except  by  legal  pro- 
cess, to  billet  no  more  soldiers  on  the  people,  and  to  leave 
the  cognizance  of  offences  to  the  ordinary  tribunals. 

In  the  summer,  this  memorable  Parliament  was  prorogued. 
It  met  again  in  January,  1629.  Buckingham  was  no  moie. 
That  weak,  violent,  and  dissolute  adventurer,  who,  with  no 
talents  or  acquirements  but  those  of  a mere  courtier,  had,  in 
a great  crisis  of  foreign  and  domestic  politics,  ventured  on 
the  part  of  prime  minister,  had  fallen,  during  the  recess  of 
Parliament,  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin.  Both  before  and 
after  his  death  the  war  had  been  feebly  and  unsuccessfully 
conducted.  The  King  had  continued,  in  direct  violation  of 
the  Petition  of  Right,  to  raise  tonnage  and  poundage  with- 
out the  consent  of  Parliament.  The  troo]3S  had  again  been 
billeted  on  the  people ; and  it  was  clear  to  the  Commons 
that  the  five  subsidies  which  they  had  given  as  the  price  of 
the  national  liberties  had  been  given  in  vain. 

They  met  accordingly  in  no  complying  humor.  They 
took  into  their  most  serious  consideration  the  measures  of 
the  government  concerning  tonnage  and  poundage.  They 
summoned  the  officers  of  the  custom-house  to  their  bar.  They 
interrogated  the  barons  of  the  exchequer.  They  committed 
one  of  the  sheriffs  of  London.  Sir  John  Eliot,  a distin- 
guished member  of  the  Opposition,  and  an  intimate  friend 
of  Hampden,  proposed  a resolution  condemning  the  uncon- 
stitutional imposition.  The  Speaker  said  that  the  King  had 
commanded  him  to  ])ut  no  such  question  to  the  vote.  This 
decision  produced  the  most  violent  burst  of  feeling  ever 
seen  within  the  walls  of  Parliament.  Ilayman  remonstrated 
vehemently  against  the  disgraceful  language  which  had  been 
heard  from  the  chair.  Eliot  dashed  the  paper  which  con- 
tained his  resolution  on  the  floor  of  the  House.  Valentine 
and  Hollis  held  the  Speaker  down  in  his  seat  by  main  force, 
and  read  the  motion  amidst  the  loudest  shouts.  The  door 
was  locked.  The  key  was  laid  on  the  table.  Black  Rod 
knocked  for  ad mittance  in  vain.  After  passing  several  strong 
resolutions,  the  House  adjourned.  On  the  day  appointed 
for  its  meeting  it  was  dissolved  by  the  King,  and  several  of 
its  most  eminent  members,  among  whom  were  Hollis  and 
Sir  John  Eliot,  were  committed  to  prisom 


696  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Though  Hampden  had  as  yet  taken  little  part  in  the 
debates  of  the  House,  he  had  been  a member  of  many  ver^ 
important  committees,  and  had  read  and  written  much  con- 
cerning the  law  of  I’arliament.  A manuscript  volume  of 
Parliamentary  cases,  which  is  still  in  existence,  contains 
many  extracts  from  his  notes. 

He  now  retired  to  the  duties  and  pleasures  of  a rural 
life.  During  the  eleven  years  which  followed  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  Parliament  of  1628,  he  resided  at  his  seat  in  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  the  county  of  Buckingham. 
The  house,  which  has  since  his  time  been  greatly  altered, 
and  which  is  now,  we  believe,  almost  entirely  neglected, 
was  an  old  English  mansion,  built  in  the  days  of  the  Planta- 
genets  and  the  Tudors.  It  stood  on  the  brow  of  a hill 
which  overlooks  a narrow  valley.  The  extensive  woods 
which  surround  it  were  pierced  by  long  avenues.  One  of 
those  avenues  the  grandfather  of  the  great  statesman  had  cut 
for  the  approach  of  Elizabeth ; and  the  opening,  which  is 
still  visible  for  many  miles,  retains  the  name  of  the  Queen’s 
Gap.  In  this  delightful  retreat,  Hampden  passed  several 
years,  performing  v/ith  great  activity  all  the  duties  of  a 
landed  gentleman  and  a magistrate,  and  amusing  himself 
with  books  and  with  field  sports. 

He  was  not  in  his  retirement  unmindful  of  his  persecuted 
friends.  In  particular,  he  kept  up  a close  correspondence 
with  Sir  John  Eliot,  who  was  confined  in  the  Tower. 
Lord  Nugent  has  published  several  of  the  Letters.  We 
may  perhaps  be  fanciful ; but  it  seems  to  us  that  every  one  of 
them  is  an  admirable  illustration  of  some  part  of  the  char- 
acter of  Hampden  which  Clarendon  has  drawn. 

Part  of  the  correspondence  relates  to  the  two  sons  of  Sir 
John  Eliot.  These  young  men  were  wild  and  unsteady: 
and  their  father,  who  was  now  separated  from  them,  was 
naturally  anxious  about  their  conduct.  He  at  length  re- 
solved to  send  one  of  them  to  France,  and  the  other  to  serve 
a campaign  in  the  Low  Countries.  The  letter  which  we 
subjoin  shows  that  Hampden,  though  rigorous  towards  him- 
self, was  not  uncharitable  towards  others,  and  that  his 
Puritanism  was  perfectly  compatible  with  the  sentiments 
and  the  tastes  of  an  accomplished  gentleman.  It  also  il- 
lustrates admirably  what  has  been  said  of  him  by  Claren- 
don ; “ He  was  of  that  rare  affability  and  temper  in  debate, 

and  of  that  seeming  humility  and  submission  of  Judgment, 
as  if  he  brought  no  opinion  of  his  own  with  him,  but  a 


JOHN  IIAMPDEl'f. 


697 


desire  of  information  and  instruction.  Yet  lie  had  so  subtle 
a way  of  interrogating,  and,  under  cover  of  doubts,  insinua- 
ting his  objections,  that  lie  infused  liis  own  opinions  into 
those  from  wliom  he  pretended  to  learn  and  receive  them.” 

The  letter  runs  thus  : “ I am  so  perfectly  acquainted 
with  your  clear  insight  into  the  dispositions  of  men,  and 
ability  to  fit  them  with  courses  suitable,  that,  had  yo  i 
bestowed  sons  of  mine  as  you  have  done  your  own,  iry 
judgment  durst  hardly  have  called  it  into  question,  espe- 
cially when,  in  laying  the  design,  you  have  prevented  the 
1 objections  to  be  made  against  it.  For  if  Mr.  Richard  Eliot 
will,  in  the  intermission  of  action,  add  study  to  practice, 
and  adorn  that  lively  spirit  witli  flowers  of  contemplation, 
he  will  raise  our  expectations  of  another  Sir  Edward  Vere, 
that  had  this  character — all  summer  in  the  field,  all  winter 
in  his  study — in  whose  fall  fame  makes  this  kingdom  a great 
loser ; and,  having  taken  this  resolution  from  counsel  with 
the  highest  wisdom,  as  I doubt  not  you  have,  I hope  and 
pray  that  the  same  power  will  crown  it  with  a blessing 
answerable  to  our  wish.  The  way  you  take  with  my  other 
friend  shows  you  to  be  none  of  the  Bishop  of  Exeter’s  con- 
verts ; * of  whose  mind  neither  am  I superstitiously.  But 
had  my  opinion  been  asked,  I should,  as  vulgar  conceits 
use  to  do,  have  showed  my  power  rather  to  raise  objections 
than  to  answer  them.  A temper  between  France  and  Ox- 
ford, might  have  taken  away  his  scruples,  with  more  ad- 
vantage to  his  years.  * * * * Eor  although  he  be  one 
of  those  that,  if  liis  age  were  looked  for  in  no  other  book 
but  that  of  the  mind,  would  be  found  no  ward  if  you  should 
die  to-morrow,  yet  it  is  a great  hazard,  methinks,  to  see  so 
sweet  a disposition  guarded  with  no  more,  amongst  a people 
whereof  many  make  it  their  religion  to  be  superstitious  in 
impiety,  and  their  behavior  to  be  affected  in  ill  manners. 
But  God,  who  only  knoweth  the  periods  of  life  and  oppor- 
tunities to  come,  hath  designed  him,  I hope,  for  his  own 
service  be  time,  and  stirred  up  your  providence  to  husband 
him  so  early  for  great  affairs.  Then  shall  he  be  sure  to 
find  Him  in  France  that  Abraham  did  in  Sechem  and  Joseph 
in  Egypt,  under  Avhose  wing  alone  is  perfect  safety.” 

Sir  John  Eliot  employed  himself,  during  his  imprison- 
ment, in  writing  a treatise  on  government,  which  he  trans- 
mitted to  his  friend.  Hampden’s  criticisms  are  strikingly 

* Hall,  Bislio])  of  Exeter,  had  written  strongly,  both  in  verse  and  in 
prose,  against  the  fashion  of  sending  young  men  of  quality  to  travel. 


698 


Macaulay’s  misckllankous  wiutixqs. 


characteristic.  They  arc  written  with  all  that  ‘‘  flowing 
courtesy”  which  is  ascribed  to  him  by  Clarendon.  Tho 
objections  are  insinuated  with  so  much  delicacy  that  they 
could  scarcely  gall  the  inost  irritable  author.  We  see  too 
how  highly  Hampden  valued  in  the  writings  of  others  that 
conciseness  which  was  one  of  the  most  striking  peculiarities 
of  his  own  eloquence.  Sir  John  Eliot’s  style  was,  it  seems, 
too  diffuse,  and  it  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the  skill  with 
which  this  is  suggested.  “ The  piece,”  says  Hampden,  “ is 
as  complete  an  image  of  the  pattern  as  can  be  drawn  by 
lines,  a lively  character  of  a large  mind,  the  subject,  method, 
and  expression,  excellent  and  homogeneal,  and,  to  say  truth,  1 
sweetheart,  somewhat  exceeding  my  commendations.  My  | 
words  cannot  render  them  to  the  life.  Yet,  to  show  my  j 
ingenuity  rather  than  wit,  would  not  a less  model  have  1 
given  a full  representation  of  that  subject,  not  by  diminu-  ^ 
tion  but  by  contraction  of  parts  ? I desire  to  learn.  I dare  1 
not  say.  The  variations  upon  each  particular  seem  many  ; | 
all,  I confess,  excellent.  The  fountain  was  full,  the  channel  I 
narrow  ; that  may  be  the  cause ; or  that  the  author  resembled  | 
Virgil,  who  made  more  verses  by  many  than  he  intended  to  ^ 
write.  To  extract  a just  number,  had  I seen  all  his,  I could  j 
easily  have  bid  him  make  fewer  ; but  if  he  had  bade  me  tell  A 
him  which  he  should  have  spared,  I had  been  posed.”  l 

This  is  evidently  the  writing  not  only  of  a man  of  good 
sense  and  natural  good  taste,  but  of  a man  of  literary  habits.  ~ 
Of  the  studies  of  Hampden  little  is  known.  But,  as  it  was 
at  one  time  in  contemplation  to  give  him  the  charge  of  the 
education  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that 
his  acquirements  were  considerable.  Davila,  it  is  said,  was 
one  of  his  favorite  writers.  The  moderation  of  Davila’s 
opinions  and  the  perspicuity  and  manliness  of  his  style 
could  not  but  recommend  him  to  so  judicious  a reader.  It 
is  not  improbable  that  the  parallel  between  France  and 
England,  the  Huguenots  and  the  Puritans,  had  struck  the 
mind  of  Hampden,  and  that  he  already  found  within  himself 
])owers  not  unequal  to  the  lofty  part  of  Coligni.  j 

While  he  was  engaged  in  these  pursuits,  a heavy  domes-  || 
tic  calamity  fell  on  him.  His  wife,  who  had  borne  him  nine  !| 
children,  died  in  the  summer  of  1634.  She  lies  in  the  parish  I 

church  of  Hampden,  close  to  the  manor-house.  The  tender  ' 

and  energetic  language  of  her  epitaph  still  attests  the  bitter-  j 
ness  of  her  husband’s  sorrow,  and  the  consolation  which  he 
found  in  a hope  full  of  irmuortality.  ' 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


699 


In  the  mean  time,  the  aspect  of  public  affairs  grew 
darker  and  darker.  The  health  of  Eliot  had  sunk  under  an 
unlawful  imprisonment  of  several  years.  The  brave  sufferer 
refused  to  purchase  liberty,  though  liberty  Avould  to  him 
have  been  life,  by  recognizing  the  authority  which  had  con 
fined  liim.  In  consequence  of  the  representations  of  his 
physicians,  the  severity  of  restraint  was  somewhat  relaxed. 
lUit  it  was  in  vain.  He  languished  and  expired  a martyr 
to  that  good  cause  for  which  his  friend  Hampden  was  des«> 
tined  to  meet  a more  brilliant,  but  not  a more  honorable 
death. 

All  the  promises  of  the  King  were  violatedwithout  scruple 
or  shame.  The  Petition  of  Right,  to  which  he  had,  in  con  - 
sideration  of  monies  duly  numbered,  given  a solemn  assent, 
was  set  at  nought.  Taxes  were  raised  by  the  royal  author- 
ity. Patents  of  monopoly  were  granted.  The  old  usages 
of  feudal  times  were  made  pretexts  for  harassing  the  people 
with  exactions  unknown  during  many  years.  Tlie  Puritans 
were  persecuted  with  cruelty  worthy  of  the  Holy  Office. 
They  were  forced  to  fly  from  the  country.  They  were  im- 
prisoned. They  were  whipped.  Their  ears  were  cut  off. 
Their  noses  were  slit.  Their  cheeks  were  branded  with  red- 
hot  iron.  But  the  cruelty  of  the  oppressor  could  not  tire 
out  the  fortitude  of  the  victims.  The  mutilated  defenders 
of  liberty  again  defied  the  vengeance  of  the  Star  Chamber, 
came  back  with  undiminished  resolution  to  the  place  of 
their  glorious  infamy,  and  manfully  presented  the  stumjis  of 
their  ears  to  be  grubbed  out  by  the  hangman’s  knife.  The 
hardy  sect  grew  up  and  flourished  in  spite  of  every  thing 
that  seemed  likely  to  stunt  it,  struck  its  roots  deep  into  a 
barren  soil,  and  spread  its  branches  wide  to  an  inclement 
sky.  The  multitude  thronged  round  Prynne  in  the  pillory 
with  more  respect  than  they  paid  to  Mainwaring  in  the 
pulpit,  and  treasured  up  the  rags  which  the  blood  of  Burton 
had  soaked,  with  a veneration  such  as  mitres  and  surplices 
had  ceased  to  inspire. 

For  the  misgo Adornment  of  this  disastrous  period  Charles 
himself  is  principally  responsible.  After  the  death  of  Buck- 
ingham, he  seems  to  have  been  his  own  prime  ihinister.  He 
had,  howcA^cr,  tAvo  counsellors  Avho  seconded  him,  or  went 
beyond  him,  in  intolerance  and  lawless  violence,  the  one  a 
superstitious  drReller,  as  honest  as  a vile  temper  would 
Buffer  him  to  be,  the  other  a man  of  gi-eat  valor  and  ca« 
pacity,  ])ut  I'centious,  faithless,  corrupt,  and  cruel. 


700 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings, 


Never  were  faces  more  strikingly  characteristic  of  the 
individuals  to  whom  they  belonged,  than  those  of  Laud  and 
Strafford,  as  they  still  remain  portrayed  by  the  most  skilful 
liand  of  that  age.  The  mean  forehead,  the  pinched  features, 
the  peering  eyes,  of  the  prelate,  suit  admirably  with  his  dis- 
position. They  mark  him  out  as  a lower  kind  of  Saint 
Dominic,  differing  from  the  fierce  and  gloomy  enthusiast 
who  founded  the  Inquisition,  as  we  might  imagine  the  fa^ 
miliar  imp  of  a spiteful  witch  to  differ  from  an  archangel 
of  darkness.  When  we  read  His  Grace’s  judgments,  when 
we  read  the  report  which  he  drew  up,  setting  forth  that  he 
had  sent  some  separatists  to  prison,  and  imploring  the  royal 
aid  against  others,  we  feel  a movement  of  indignation.  We 
turn  to  his  Diary,  and  we  are  at  once  as  cool  as  contempt 
can  make  us.  There  we  learn  how  his  picture  fell  down, 
and  how  fearful  he  was  lest  the  fall  should  be  an  omen ; j 
how  he  dreamed  that  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  came  to  bed 
to  him,  that  King  James  walked  past  him,  that  he  saw  ^ 
Thomas  Flaxney  in  green  garments,  and  the  Bishop  of 
Worcester  with  his  shoulders  wrapped  in  linen.  In  the  | 
early  part  of  1627,  the  sleep  of  this  great  ornament  of  the  ^ 
church  seems  to  have  been  much  disturbed.  On  the  fifth  : 
of  January,  he  saw  a merry  old  man  with  a wrinkled  coun-  i 
tenance,  named  Grove,  lying  on  the  ground.  On  the  four-  ’ 
teenth  of  the  same  memorable  month,  he  saw  the  Bishop  of  i 
Lincoln  jump  on  a horse  and  ride  away.  A day  or  two  g 
after  this  he  dreamed  that  he  gave  the  King  drink  in  a silver  8 
cup,  and  that  the  King  refused  it,  and  called  for  glass.  3 

Then  he  dreamed  that  he  had  turned  Papist;  of  all  his  f 
dreams  the  only  one,  we  suspect,  which  came  through  the  gate 
of  horn.  But  of  these  visions  our  favorite  is  that  which,  as  J 
he  has  recorded,  he  enjoyed  on  the  night  of  Friday,  the  .3 
ninth  of  February,  1627.  “I  dreamed,”  says  he,  “that  I ;• 
had  the  scurvy ; and  that  forthwith  all  my  teeth  became 
loose.  There  was  one  in  especial  in  my  lower  jaw,  which  I " 
could  scarcely  keep  in  with  my  finger  till  I had  called  for 
help.”  Here  was  a man  to  have  the  superintendence  of  the 
opinions  of  a great  nation  ! 

But  Wentworth, — who  ever  names  him  without  think- 
ing of  those  harsh  dark  features,  ennobled  by  their  expres- 
sion into  more  than  the  majesty  of  an  antique  Jupiter  ; of 
that  brow,  that  eye,  that  cheek,  that  lip,  wherein,  as  in  a | 
chronicle,  are  written  the  events  of  many  stormy  and  dis- 
astrous years,  high  enterprise  accomplished,  frightful  dangers 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


701 


braved,  power  unsparingly  exercised,  suffering  unshrink- 
ingly borne;  of  that  fixed  look,  so  full  of  severity,  of  mourn- 
ful anxiety,  of  deep  thought,  of  dauntless  resolution,  which 
seems  at  once  to  forebode  and  to  defy  a terrible  fate,  as  it 
lowers  on  us  from  the  living  canvass  of  Vandyke?  Even 
at  this  day  the  haughty  earl  overawes  posterity  as  he  over- 
awed his  contemporaries,  and  excites  the  same  interest  when 
arraigned  before  the  tribunal  of  history  which  he  excited  at 
the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords.  In  spite  of  ourselves,  we 
sometimes  feel  towards  his  memory  a certain  relenting 
similar  to  that  relenting  which  his  defence,  as  Sir  John 
Denham  tells  us,  produced  in  Westminster  Hall. 

This  great,  brave,  bad  man  entered  the  House  of  Com- 
mons at  the  same  time  with  Plampden,  and  took  the  same 
side  with  Hampden.  Both  were  among  the  richest  and 
most  powerful  commoners  in  the  kingdom.  Both  were 
equally  distinguished  by  force  of  character,  and  by  personal 
courage.  Hampden  had  more  judgment  and  sagacity  than 
Wentworth.  But  no  orator  of  that  time  equalled  Went- 
worth in  force  and  brilliancy  of  expression.  In  1626  both 
these  eminent  men  were  committed  to  prison  by  the  King, 
Wentworth,  who  was  among  the  leaders  of  the  Opposition, 
on  account  of  his  parliamentary  conduct,  Hampden,  who  had 
not  as  yet  taken  a prominent  part  in  debate,  for  refusing  to 
pay  taxes  illegally  imposed. 

Here  their  path  separated.  After  the  death  of  Bucking- 
ham, the  King  attempted  to  seduce  some  of  the  chiefs  of 
the  Opposition  from  their  party;  and  Wentworth  was 
among  those  who  yielded  to  the  seduction.  He  abandoned 
his  associates,  and  hated  them  ever  after  with  the  deadly 
hatred  of  a renegade.  High  titles  and  great  employments 
were  heaped  upon  him.  He  became  Earl  of  Strafford, 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  President  of  the  Council  of  the 
North;  and.  he  employed  all  his  power  for  the  purpose  of 
crushing  those  liberties  of  which  he  had  been  the  most  dis- 
tinguished champion.  His  counsels  respecting  public  affairs 
were  fierce  and  arbitrary.  His  correspondence  with  Laud 
abundantly  proves  that  government  without  parliaments, 
government  by  the  sword,  was  his  favorite  scheme.  He 
was  angry  even  that  the  course  of  justice  between  man  and 
man  should  be  unrestrained  by  the  royal  prerogative.  He 
grudged  to  the  Courts  of  King’s  Bench  and  Common  Pleas 
even  that  measure  of  liberty  which  the  most  absolute  of  the 
Bourbons  allowed  to  the  Parliameuts  of  France.  In  Ir^- 


702 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


land,  where  he  stood  in  the  place  of  the  King,  his  practice  fl 
was  in  strict  accordance  witli  his  theory.  lie  set  up  the  au-  ■ 
thority  of  the  executive  government  over  that  of  the  courts  I 
of  law.  He  permitted  no  person  to  leave  the  island  without  I 
his  license.  He  established  vast  monopolies  for  his  own  I 
private  benefit.  He  imposed  taxes  arbitrarily.  He  levied  V 
them  by  military  force.  Some  of  his  acts  are  described  m 
even  by  the  partial  Clarendon  as  powerful  acts,  acts  which  I 
marked  a nature  excessively  imperious,  acts  which  caused  S 
dislike  and  terror  in  sober  and  dispassionate  persons,  high  I 
acts  of  oppression.  Upon  a most  frivolous  charge,  he  ob-  ■ 
tained  a capital  sentence  from  a court-martial  against  a I 
man  of  high  rank  who  had  given  him  offence.  He  debauched  a 
the  daughter-in-law  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland,  and  5 
then  commanded  that  nobleman  to  settle  his  estate  accord-  1 
ing  to  the  wishes  of  the  lady.  The  Chancellor  refused. 

Th^e  Lord  Lieutenant  turned  him  out  of  office,  and  threw  I 
him  into  prison.  When  the  violent  acts  of  the  Long  Parlia-  | 
ment  are  blamed,  let  it  not  be  forgotten  from  what  a tyranny  | 
they  rescued  the  nation.  J 

Among  the  humbler  tools  of  Charles  were  Chief-Justice  3 
Finch  and  Noy  the  Attorney-General.  Noy  had,  like  Vv^ ent-  f 
worth,  supported  the  cause  of  liberty  in  Parliament,  and  J 
had,  like  Wentworth,  abandoned  that  cause  for  the  sak^^  of  | 
office.  He  devised,  in  conjunction  with  Finch,  a scheme  of  | 
exaction  which  made  the  alienation  of  the  people  from  the 
throne  complete.  A writ  was  issued  by  the  King,  com- 
manding the  city  of  London  to  equip  and  man  ships  of  war 
for  his  service.  Similar  writs  were  sent  to  the  towns  along 
the  coast.  These  measures,  though  they  were  direct  viola- 
tions of  the  Petition  of  Right,  had  at  least  some  show  of 
precedent  in  their  favor.  But,  after  a time,  the  government 
took  a step  for  which  no  precedent  could  be  pleaded,  and 
sent  writs  of  ship-money  to  the  inland  counties.  This  was 
a stretch  of  power  on  which  Elizabeth  herself  had  not  ven- 
tured, even  at  a time  when  all  laws  might  with  propriety 
haA^e  been  made  to  bend  to  that  highest  law,  the  safety  of 
the  State.  The  inland  counties  had  not  been  required  to 
furnish  ships,  or  money  in  the  room  of  ships,  eA^en  when  the 
Armada  was  approaching  our  shores.  It  seemed  intolerable 
that  a prince  who,  by  assenting  to  the  Petition  of  Right, 
had  relinquished  the  power  of  levying  ship-money  even  in 
the  out-ports,  should  be  the  first  to  levy  it  on  parts  of  the 
kingdom  where  it  had  been  unknown  under  the  most  ab 
solute  of  his  predecessors. 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


703 


Clarendon  distinctly  admits  that  this  tax  was  intended, 
not  only  for  the  support  of  the  navy,  but  “for  a spring  and 
magazine  that  should  have  no  bottom,  and  for  an  everlast- 
ing supply  of  all  occasions.”  The  nation  well  understood 
this ; and  from  one  end  of  England  to  the  other  the  public 
mind  was  strongly  excited. 

Buckinghamshire  was  assessed  at  a ship  of  four  hundred 
and  fifty  tons,  or  a sum  of  four  thousand  five  hundred 
pounds.  The  share  of  the  tax  which  fell  to  Hampden  was 
very  small ; so  small,  indeed,  that  the  sheriff  was  blamed 
for  setting  so  wealthy  a man  at  so  low  a rate.  But,  though 
the  sum  demanded  was  a trifle,  the  principle  involved  was 
fearfully  important.  Hampden,  after  consulting  the  most 
eminent  constitutional  lawyers  of  the  time,  refused  to  pay 
the  few  shillings  at  which  he  was  assessed,  and  determined 
to  incur  all  the  certain  expense,  and  the  probable  danger  of 
bringing  to  a solemn  hearing  this  great  controversy  between 
the  people  and  the  Crown.  “ Till  this  time,”  says  Claren 
don,  “ he  was  rather  of  reputation  in  his  own  country  than 
of  public  discourse  or  fame  in  the  kingdom ; but  then  he 
grew  the  argument  of  all  tongues,  every  man  inquiring 
who  and  what  he  was  that  durst,  at  his  own  charge,  sup- 
port  the  liberty  and  prosperity  of  the  kingdom.” 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1636,  this  great  cause  came 
on  in  the  Exchequer  Chamber  before  all  the  judges  of  Eng- 
land. The  leading  counsel  against  the  writ  was  the  cele- 
brated Oliver  St.  John,  a man  whose  temper  was  melancholy, 
whose  manners  were  reserved,  and  who  was  as  yet  little 
known  in  Westminster  Hall,  but  whose  great  talents  had  not 
escaped  the  penetrating  eye  of  Hampden.  The  Attorney- 
General  and  Solicitor-General  appeared  for  the  Crown. 

The  arguments  of  the  counsel  occupied  many  days ; and 
the  Exchequer  Chamber  took  a considerable  time  for  delib- 
eration. The  opinion  of  the  Bench  was  divided.  So  clearly 
was  the  la  v in  favor  of  Hampden  that,  though  the  judges 
held  their  situations  only  during  the  royal  pleasure,  the  ma- 
jority against  him  was  the  least  possible.  Five  of  the 
twelve  pronounced  in  his  favor.  The  remaining  seven  gave 
their  voices  for  the  writ. 

The  only  effect  of  this  decision  was  to  make  the  public 
indignation  stronger  and  deeper.  “The  judgment,”  says 
Clarendon,  “ proved  of  more  advantage  and  credit  to  the 
gentleman  condemned  than  to  the  King’s  service.”  The 
courage  which  Hampden  had  shown  on  this  occasion,  as  the 


704  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

same  liistorian  tells  ns,  “ raised  liis  reputation  to  a great 
height  generally  throughout  the  kingdom.”  Even  courtiers 
and  crown-lawyers  spoke  respectfully  of  him.  “His  car- 
riage,”  says  Clarendon,  “ throughout  that  agitation,  was 
with  that  rare  temper  and  modesty,  that  they  who  watched 
liim  narrowly  to  find  some  advantage  against  his  person,  to 
make  him  less  resolute  in  his  cause,  were  compelled  to  give 
him  a just  testimony.”  But  his  demeanor,  though  it  im- 
pressed Lord  Falkland  with  the  deepest  respect,  though  it 
drew  forth  the  praises  of  Solicitor-General  Herbert,  only 
kindled  into  a fiercer  flame  the  ever-burning  hatred  of 
Strafford.  That  minister,  in  his  letters  to  Laud,  murmured 
against  the  lenity  with  wliich  Hampden  was  treated.  “ In 
good  faith,”  he  wrote,  “ were  such  men  rightly  served,  they 
should  be  whipped  into  their  right  wits.”  Again  he  says, 
“ I still  wish  Mr.  Hampden,  and  others  of  his  likeness,  were 
well  whipped  into  their  right  senses.  And  if  the  rod  be  so 
used  that  it  smart  not,  I am  the  more  sorry.” 

The  person  of  Hampden  was  now  scarcely  safe.  His 
prudence  and  moderation  had  hitherto  disappointed  those 
who  Avould  gladly  have  had  a pretence  for  sending  him  to 
the  prison  of  Eliot.  But  he  knew  that  the  eye  of  a tyrant 
was  on  him.  In  the  year  1637  misgovernment  had  reached 
its  height.  Eight  years  had  passed  without  a Parliamcmt. 
The  decision  of  the  Exchequer  Chamber  had  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  Crown  the  whole  property  of  the  English 
people.  About  the  time  at  which  that  decision  was  pro- 
nounced, Prynne,  Bastwick,  and  Burton  were  mutilated  by 
the  sentence  of  the  Star  Chamber,  and  sent  to  rot  in  remote 
dungeons.  The  estate  and  person  of  every  man  who  had 
opposed  the  court  were  at  its  mercy. 

Hampden  determined  to  leave  England.  Beyond  the 
Atlantic  Ocean,  a few  of  the  persecuted  Puritans  had  formed, 
in  the  wilderness  of  Connecticut,  a settlement  which  has 
since  become  a prosperous  commonwealth,  and  which,  in 
spite  of  the  lapse  of  time  and  of.the  change  of  government, 
still  retains  something  of  the  character  given  to  it  by  its 
first  founders.  Lord  Saye  and  Lord  Brooke  were  the 
original  projectors  of  the  scheme  of  emigration.  Hampden 
had  been  early  consulted  respecting  it.  He  was  now,  it 
appears,  desirous  to  withdraw  himself  beyond  the  reach  of 
oppressors  who,  as  he  probably  suspected,  and  as  we  know, 
were  bent  on  punishing  his  manful  resistance  to  their  tyr- 
anny. He  was  accompanied  by  his  kinsman,  Oliver  Crom 


^OHK  HAMPDEN'. 


70D 


n^ell,  over  \vhom  lie  possessed  great  influence,  and  in  vvdiom 
he  alone  liad  discovered,  under  an  exterior  appearance  of 
coarseness  and  extravagance,  those  great  and  commanding 
talents  which  were  afterwards  the  admiration  and  the  dread 
of  Europe. 

The  cousins  took  their  passage  in  a vessel  whicli  lay  in 
the  Thames,  and  wliicli  was  bound  for  America.  They 
were  actually  on  board,  when  an  order  of  council  appeared, 
by  which  the  ship  was  prohibited  from  sailing.  Seven 
other  ships,  filled  with  emigrants,  were  stopped  at  the  same 
lime. 

Hampden  and  Cromwell  remained ; and  with  themi 
remained  the  Evil  Genius  of  the  House  of  Stuart.  The  tide 
of  ])ublic  affairs  was  even  now  on  the  turn.  The  King  had 
resolved  to  change  the  ecclesiastical  constitution  of  Scot- 
land, and  to  introduce  into  the  public  worship  of  that  king- 
dom ceremonies  which  the  great  body  of  the  Scotch  regarded 
as  popish.  This  absurd  attempt  produced,  first  discontents, 
then  riots,  and  at  last  open  rebellion.  A provisional  gov- 
ernment was  established  at  Edinburgh,  and  its  authority 
was  obeyed  throughout  the  kingdom.  This  government 
raised  an  army,  appointed  a general,  and  summoned  an 
Assembly  of  the  Kirk.  The  famous  instrument  called  the 
Covenant  was  put  forth  at  this  time,  and  was  eagerly  sub- 
Bcribed  by  the  people. 

The  beginnings  of  this  formidable  insurrection  were 
strangely  neglected  by  the  King  and  his  advisers.  But  to- 
wards the  close  of  the  year  1CB8  the  danger  became  press- 
ing. An  army  was  raised ; and  early  in  the  following  spring 
Charles  marched  northward  at  the  head  of  a force  sufficient, 
as  it  seemed,  to  reduce  the  Covenanters  to  submission. 

But  Charles  acted  at  this  conjuncture  as  he  acted  at 
every  important  conjuncture  tliroiighout  his  life.  After 
oppressing,  threatening,  and  blustering,  he  hesitated  and 
failed.  He  was  bold  in  tlie  wrong  place,  and  timid  in  the 
wrong  place.  He  would  have  shown  liis  wisdom  by  being 
afraid  before  the  liturgy  was  read  in  St.  Giles’s  church, 
lie  put  off  his  fear  till  lie  had  reached  the  Scottish  border 
with  his  troops.  Then^  after  a feeble  campaign,  he  con- 
cluded a treaty  with  the  insurgents,  and  withdrew  his  army. 
But  the  terms  of  the  pacification  were  not  observed.  Each 
party  charged  the  other  with  foul  play.  The  Scots  refused 
to  disarm.  The  King  found  great  difficulty  in  re-assem 
blinghis  forces.  His  late  expedition  had  drained  his  treasury. 

VoL.  I.— 45^ 


706  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  muitingb. 

The  revenues  of  the  next  year  liad  been  anticipated.  At 
another  time,  lie  might  liave  attempted  to  make  up  tlie  de- 
ficiency by  illegal  expedients  ; but  such  a course  would 
clearly  have  been  dangerous  when  part  of  the  island  was  in 
rebellion.  It  was  necessary  to  call  a Parliament.  After 
eleven  years  of  suffering,  the  voice  of  the  nation  was  to  be 
beard  once  more. 

In  April,  1640,  the  Parliament  met;  and  the  King  had 
another  chance  of  conciliating  his  people.  The  new  House 
of  Commons  was,  beyond  all  comparison,  the  least  refractory 
House  of  Commons  that  had  been  known  for  many  years. 
Indeed,  we  have  never  been  able  to  understand  how,  after 
so  long  a period  of  misgovernment,  the  representatives  of 
the  nation  should  have  shown  so  moderate  and  so  loyal  a 
disposition.  Clarendon  speaks  with  admiration  of  their 
dutiful  temper.  “ The  House,  generally,”  says  he,  “ was  ex- 
ceedingly disposed  to  please  the  King,  and  to  do  him  ser- 
vice.” ‘‘  It  could  never  be  hoped,”  he  observes  elsewhere, 
“ that  more  sober  or  dispassionate  men  would  ever  meet  to- 
gether in  that  place,  or  fewer  who  brought  ill  purposes  with 
them.” 

In  this  Parliament  Hampden  took  his  seat  as  member  for 
Buckinghamshire,  and  thenceforward,  till  the  day  of  his 
death,  gave  himself  up,  with  scarcely  any  intermission,  to 
public  affairs.  He  took  lodgings  in  Gray’s  Inn  Lane,  near 
the  house  occupied  by  Pym,  with  whom  he  lived  in  habits 
of  the  closest  intimacy.  He  was  now  decidedly  the  most 
popular  man  in  England.  The  Opposition  looked  to  him  as 
their  leader,  and  the  servants  of  the  King  treated  him  with 
marked  respect. 

Charles  requested  the  Parliament  to  vote  an  immediate 
supply,  and  pledged  liis  word  that,  if  they  would  gratify 
him  in  this  request,  he  would  afterwards  give  them  time  to 
represent  their  grievances  to  him.  The  grievances  under 
which  the  nation  suffered  were  so  serious,  and  the  royal 
v ord  had  been  so  shamefully  violated,  that  the  Commons 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  comply  with  this  request. 
During  the  first  week  of  the  session,  the  minutes  of  the  pro- 
ceedings against  Hampden  were  laid  on  the  table  by  Olivei 
St.  John,  and  a committee  reported  that  the  case  was  mat- 
ter of  grievance.  The  King  sent  a message  to  the  Commons, 
offering,  if  they  would  vote  him  twelve  subsidies,  to  give  up 
the  prerogative  of  ship-money.  Many  years  before,  he  had 
received  five  subsidies  in  consideration  of  his  assent  to  the 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


707 


Petition  of  Right.  By  assenting  to  that  petition,  he  had 
given  up  the  right  of  levying  ship-money,  if  he  ever  possessed 
it.  How  he  had  observed  the  promises  made  to  tliis  third 
Parliament,  all  England  knew  ; and  it  was  not  strange  that 
the  Commons  should  be  somewhat  unwilling  to  buy  from 
liim,  over  and  over  again,  their  own  ancient  and  undoubted 
inheritance. 

Jlis  message,  however,  was  not  unfavorably  receivedc 
The  Commons  were  ready  to  give  a large  supply ; but  they 
were  not  disposed  to  give  it  in  exchange  for  a prerogative 
of  which  they  altogether  denied  the  existence.  If  they 
acceded  to  the  proposal  of  the  King,  they  recognized  the 
legality  of  the  writs  of  ship-money. 

Hampden,  who  was  a greater  master  of  parliamentary 
tactics  than  any  man  of  his  time,  saw  that  this  was  the  pre- 
vailing feeling,  and  availed  himself  of  it  with  great  dexterity. 
Ife  moved  that  the  question  should  be  put,  “ Whether  the 
House  would  consent  to  the  proposition  mad’e  by  the  King, 
as  contained  in  the  message.”  Hyde  interfered,  and  pro- 
posed that  the  question  should  be  divided ; that  the  sense 
of  the  House  should  be  taken  merely  on  the  point  whether 
there  should  be  a supply  or  no  supply  ; and  that  the  man- 
ner and  the  amount  should  be  left  for  subsequent  consider- 
ation. 

The  majority  of  the  House  was  for  granting  a supply, 
but  against  granting  it  in  the  manner  proposed  by  the  King. 
If  the  House  had  divided  on  Hampden’s  question,  the  court 
would  have  sustained  a defeat ; if  on  Hyde’s,  the  court 
would  have  gained  an  apparent  victory.  Some  members 
called  for  Hyde’s  motion,  others  for  Hampden’s.  In  the 
midst  of  the  uproar,  the  secretary  of  state.  Sir  Harry  Vane, 
rose  and  stated  that  the  supply  would  not  be  accepted  unless 
it  were  voted  according  to  the  tenor  of  the  message.  Vane 
was  supported  by  Herbert,  the  Solicitor-General.  Hyde’s 
motion  was  therefore  no  further  pressed,  and  the  debate  on 
the  general  question  was  adjourned  till  the  next  day. 

On  the  next  day  the  King  came  down  to  the  House  of 
Lords,  and  dissolved  the  Parliament  with  an  angry  speech. 
11  is  conduct  on  this  occasion  has  never  been  defended  by 
•:iny  of  his  apologists.  Clarendon  condemns  it  severely. 
‘‘No  man,”  says  he,  “could  imagine  what  offence  the  Com- 
mons had  given.”  The  offence  which  they  had  given  is 
plain.  They  had,  indeed,  behaved  most  temperately  and 
most  respectfully.  But  they  had  shown  a disposition  to 


708  Macaulay’s  misoellaiseous  writings. 

redress  wrongs  and  to  vindicate  tlie  laws;  and  this  w^a8 
enough  to  make  them  hateful  to  a king  whom  no  law 
could  bind,  and  whose  whole  government  was  one  system  of 
wrong. 

The  nation  received  the  intelligence  of  the  dissolution 
with  sorrow  and  indignation.  Tlie  only  persons  to  whom 
this  event  gave  ])leasure  were  those  few^  discerning  men  who 
thought  that  the  maladies  of  the  state  w^erc  beyond  the 
reach  of  gentle  remedies.  Oliver  St.  John’s  joy  was  too 
great  for  concealment.  It  lighted  up  his  dark  and  melan- 
choly features,  and  made  him,  for  the  first  time,  indiscreetly 
communicative.  lie  told  Hyde  that  things  must  be  wmrse 
liefore  they  could  be  better,  and  that  the  dissolved  Parlia- 
ment would  never  have  done  all  that  w^as  necessary.  St. 
John,  we  think,  was  in  the  right.  No  good  could  then  have 
been  done  by  any  Parliament  which  did  not  fully  understand 
that  no  confidence  could  safely  be  placed  in  the  King,  and 
that,  while  he  enjoyed  more  than  the  shadow  of  power, 
the  nation  would  never  enjoy  more  than  the  shadow  of 
liberty. 

As  soon  as  Charles  had  dismissed  the  Parliament,  he 
threw  several  members  of  the  House  of  Commons  into  prison. 
Ship-money  was  exacted  more  rigorously  than  ever ; and 
the  Mayor  and  Sheriffs  of  London  were  prosecuted  before 
the  Star  Chamber  for  slackness  in  levying  it.  Wentw^orth, 
it  is  said,  observed,  with  characteristic  insolence  and  cruelty, 
that  things  w^ould  never  go  right  till  the  Aldermen  were 
hanged.  Large  sums  w^ere  raised  by  force  on  those  counties 
in  which  the  troops  w^ere  quartered.  All  the  wretched 
shifts  of  a beggared  exchequer  were  tried.  Forced  loans 
were  raised.  Great  quantities  of  goods  were  bought  on  long 
credit  and  sold  for  ready-money.  A scheme  for  debasing 
the  currency  was  under  consideration.  At  length,  in  August, 
the  King  again  marched  northward. 

The  Scots  advanced  into  England  to  meet  him.  It  is  by 
no  means  improbable  that  tliis  bold  step  was  taken  by  the 
aflvice  of  Hampden,  and  of  those  with  whom  he  acted  ; and 
this  has  been  made  matter  of  grave  accusation  against  the 
English  Opposition.  It  is  said  that  to  call  in  the  aid  of  for- 
eigners in  a domestic  quarrel  is  the  worst  of  treasons,  and 
that  the  Puritan  leaders,  by  taking  this  course,  showed  that 
they  were  regardless  of  the  honor  and  independence  of  the 
nation,  and  anxious  only  for  the  success  of  their  own  fac- 
tion. We  are  utterly  unable  to  see  any  distinction  between 


JOHN  HAMPDEN/ 


709 


the  case  of  the  Scotch  invasion  in  1640,  and  the  case  of  the 
Dutch  invasion  in  1688  ; or  rather,  we  see  distinctions  which 
are  to  tlie  advantage  of  Hampden  and  his  friends.  We  be- 
lieve Charles  to  have  been  a worse  and  more  dangerous 
king  than  his  son.  The  Dutch  were  strangers  to  us,  tlie 
Scots  a kindred  people  speaking  the  same  language,  subjects 
of  the  same  prince,  not  aliens  in  the  eye  of  the  law.  If,  in- 
deed, it  had  been  possible  that  a Scotch  army  or  a Dutch 
army  could  have  enslaved  England,  those  who  persuaded 
Leslie  to  cross  the  Tweed,  and  those  who  signed  the  invita^ 
tion  to  tlie  Prince  of  Orange,  would  have  been  traitors  to 
their  country.  But  such  a result  was  out  of  the  question. 
All  that  either  a Scotch  or  a Dutch  invasion  could  do  was 
to  give  the  public  feeling  of  England  an  opportunity  to  show 
itself.  Both  expeditions  would  have  ended  in  complete  and 
ludicrous  discomfiture,  had  Charles  and  James  been  sup- 
ported by  their  soldiers  and  their  people.  In  neither  case, 
therefore,  was  the  independence  of  England  endangered ; 
in  both  cases  her  liberties  were  preserved. 

The  second  campaign  of  Charles  against  the  Scots  was 
short  and  ignominious.  His  soldiers,  as  soon  as  they  saw 
the  enemy,  ran  away  as  English  soldiers  have  never  run 
either  before  or  since.  It  can  scarcely  be  doubted  that  their 
flight  was  the  effect,  not  of  cowardice,  but  of  disaffection. 
Tlie  four  northern  counties  of  England  were  occupied  by  the 
Scotch  army,  and  the  King  retired  to  York. 

The  game  of  tyranny  was  now  up.  Charles  had  risked  and 
I lost  his  last  stake.  It  is  not  easy  to  retrace  the  mortifica- 
tions and  humiliations  which  the  tyrant  now  had  to  endure, 
without  a feeling  of  vindictive  pleasure.  His  army  was 
mutinous  ; his  treasury  was  empty ; his  people  clamored  for 
a Parliament ; addresses  and  petitions  against  the  govern- 
ment were  presented.  Strafford*  was  for  shooting  the  peti- 
tioners by  martial  law : but  the  King  could  not  trust  the 
soldiers.  A great  council  of  Peers  was  called  at  York  ; but 
the  King  could  not  trust  even  the  Peers.  He  struggled, 
evaded,  hesitated,  tried  every  shift,  rather  than  again  face 
the  representatives  of  his  injured  people.  At  length  no 
shift  was  left.  He  made  a truce  with  the  Scots,  and  sum- 
moned a Parliament. 

The  leaders  of  the  popular  party  had,  after  the  late  dissolu- 
I tion,  remained  in  London  for  the  purpose  of  organizing  a 
scheme  of  opposition  to  the  court.  They  now  exerted  them- 
! selves  to  the  utmost.  Hampdenj  in  particular,  rode  from 


TcO  Macaulay’s  mtsceilaneous  writings. 

county  to  county,  exhorting  the  electors  to  give  their  votes 
to  men  worthy  of  their  confidence.  The  great  majority  of 
the  returns  was  on  tlie  side  of  tlie  Opposition.  Hampden 
was  himself  chosen  member  both  for  Wendover  and  Buck- 
inghamshire. He  made  his  election  to  serve  for  the  county. 

On  the  third  of  November,  1640,  a day  to  be  long  re- 
membered,  met  that  great  Parliament,  destined  to  every  ex- 
treme of  fortune,  to  empire  and  to  servitude,  to  glory  and  to 
contempt ; at  one  time  the  sovereign  of  its  sovereign,  at  an- 
other time  the  servant  of  its  servants.  From  the  first  day 
of  meeting  the  attendance  was  great;  and  the  aspect  of 
the  members  was  that  of  men  hot  disposed  to  do  the 
work  negligently.  The  dissolution  of  the  late  Parlia- 
ment had  convinced  most  of  them  that  half  measures  would 
no  longer  suffice.  Clarendon  tells  us,  that  “ the  same  men 
who,  six  months  before,  were  observed  to  be  of  very  moder- 
ate tempers,  and  to  wish  that  gentle  remedies  might  be  ap- 
plied, talked  now  in  anotheT  dialect  both  of  kings  and 
persons  ; and  said  that  they  must  now  be  of  another  temper 
than  they  were  the  last  Parliament.”  The  debt  of  ven- 
geance was  swollen  by  all  the  usury  which  had  been  accumu- 
lating during  manjf  years ; and  payment  was  made  to  the 
full. 

This  memorable  crisis  called  forth  parliamentary  abilities 
such  as  England  had  never  before  seen.  Among  the  most 
distinguished  members  of  the  House  of  Commons  were  Falk- 
land, Hyde,  Digby,  young  Harry  Vane,  Oliver  St.John, 
Denzil  Hollis,  Nathaniel  Fiennes.  But  two  men  exercised  a 
paramount  influence  over  the  legislature  and  the  country, 
Pym  and  Hampden ; and,  by  the  universal  consent  of  friends 
and  enemies,  the  first  place  belonged  to  Hampden. 

On  occasions  which  required  set  speeches  Pym  generally 
look  the  lead.  Hampden  very  seldom  rose  till  late  in  a de- 
bate. His  speaking  was  of  that  kind  which  has,  in  every 
age,  been  held  in  the  highest  estimation  by  English  Parlia^ 
ments,  ready,  weighty,  perspicuous,  condensed.  His  per- 
ception of  the  feelings  of  the  House  was  exquisite,  his  temper 
unalterably  placid,  his  manner  eminently  courteous  and 
gentlemanlike.  Even  with  those,”  says  Clarendon,  “ who 
are  able  to  preserve  themselves  from  his  infusions,  and  who 
discerned  those  opinions  to  be  fixed  in  him  with  which 
they  could  not  comply,  he  always  left  the  character  of  an  in- 
genious and  conscientious  person.”  His  talents  for  business 
were  as  remarkable  as  his  talents  for  debate.  “ He  was,” 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


m 


eays  Clarendon,  “ of  an  industry  and  vigilance  not  to  be  tired 
out  or  wearied  by  the  most  laborious,  and  of  parts  not  to  be 
imposed  upon  by  the  most  subtle  and  sharp.”  Yet  it  was 
rather  to  his  moral  than  to  his  intellectual  qualities  that  ho 
was  indebted  for  the  vast  influence  which  he  possessed. 
“ When  tin’s  parliament  began,” — we  again  quote  Clarendon, 
— “the  eyes  of  all  men  were  flxed  upon  him,  as  their patricB 
pate7\  and  the  pilot  that  must  steer  the  vessel  through  the 
tem))ests  and  rocks  which  threatened  it.  And  I am  per- 
suaded his  power  and  interest  at  that  time  were  greater  to 
do  good  or  hurt  than  any  man’s  in  the  kingdom,  or  than 
any  man  of  his  rank  hath  had  in  any  time : for  his  reputa- 
tion of  honesty  was  universal,  and  his  affections  seemed  so 
publicly  guided,  that  no  corrupt  or  private  ends  could  bias 
them.  * * * He  was  indeed  a very  wise  man,  and  of 

great  parts,  and  possessed  with  the  most  absolute  spirit  of 
popularity,  and  the  most  absolute  faculties  to  govern  the 
people,  of  any  man  I ever  knew.” 

It  is  sufficient  to  recapitulate  shortly  the  acts  of  the  Long 
Parliament  during  its  first  session.  Strafford  and  Laud 
were  impeached  and  imprisoned.  Strafford  was  afterwards 
attainted  by  Bill,  and  executed.  Lord  Keeper  Finch  fled 
to  Holland,  Secretary  Windebank  to  France.  All  those 
whom  the  King  had,  during  the  last  twelve  years,  employed 
for  tlie  oppression  of  his  people,  from  the  servile  judges  who 
had  pronounced  in  favor  of  the  crown  against  Hampden, 
down  to  the  sheriffs  who  had  distrained  for  ship-money,  and 
the  custom-house  officers  who  had  levied  tonnage  and 
poundage,  were  summoned  to  answer  for  their  conduct. 
The  Star  Chamber,  the  High.  Commission  Court,  the  Council 
of  York,  were  abolished.  Those  unfortunate  victims  of 
Laud  who,  after  undergoing  ignominious  exposure  and  cruel 
manglings,  had  been  sent  to  languish  in  distant  prisons,  were 
set  at  liberty,  and  conducted  through  London  in  triumphant 
procession.  The  King  was  compelled  to  give  the  judges 
patents  for  life  or  during  good  behavior.  He  was  deprived 
of  those  oppressive  powers  which  were  the  last  relics  of  the 
old  feudal  tenures.  The  Forest  Courts  and  the  Stannary 
Courts  were  reformed.  It  was  provided  that  the  Parliament 
then  sitting  should  not  be  prorogued  or  dissolved  without 
its  own  consent,  and  that  a Parliament  should  be  held  at 
least  once  every  three  years. 

Many  of  these  measures  Lord  Clarendon  allows  to  have 
been  most  salutary ; and  few  persons  will,  in  our  times, 


712 


ma^caulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


deny  tliat,  in  the  laws  passed  during  this  session,  the  good 
greatly  preponderated  over  the  evil.  The  abolition  of  those 
three  hateful  courts,  the  Northern  Council,  the  Star  Cham- 
ber, and  the  High  Commission,  would  alone  entitle  the  Long 
Parliament  to  the  lasting  gratitude  of  Englishmen. 

The  proceeding  against  Strafford  undoubtedly  seems 
hard  to  people  living  in  our  days.  It  would  probably  have 
seemed  merciful  and  moderate  to  people  living  in  the  six 
teenth  century.  It  is  curious  to  compare  the  trial  of 
Charles’s  minister  with  the  trial,  if  it  can  be  so  called,  of 
Lord  Seymour  of  Sudeley,  in  the  blessed  reign  of  Edward 
the  Sixth.  None  of  the  great  reformers  of  our  Church 
doubted  the  propriety  of  passing  an  act  of  Parliament  for 
cutting  off  Lord  Seymour’s  head  without  a legal  convic- 
tion. The  pious  Cranmer  voted  for  that  act;  the  pious 
Latimer  preached  for  it ; the  pious  Edward  returned  thanks 
for  it ; and  all  the  pious  Lords  of  the  council  together  ex- 
horted their  victim  to  what  they  were  pleased  facetiously 
to  call  ‘‘  the  quiet  and  patient  suffering  of  justice.” 

But  it  is  not  necessary  to  defend  the  proceedings  against 
Strafford  by  any  such  comparison.  They  are  justified,  in 
our  opinion,  by  that  which  alone  justifies  capital  punish-  4 
ment  or  any  punishment,  by  that  which  alone  justifies  war,  ^ 
by  the  public  danger.  That  there  is  a certain  amount  of 
public  danger  which  will  justify  a legislature  in  sentencing  ' - 
a man  to  death  by  retrospective  law,  few  people,  we  sup- 
pose, will  deny.  Few  people,  for  examplo,  will  deny  that 
the  French  Convention  was  perfectly  justified  in  placing 
Robespierre,  St.  Just,  and  Couthon  under  the  ban  of  the 
law,  without  a trial.  This  proceeding  differed  from  the 
proceeding  against  Strafford  only  in  being  much  more 
lapid  and  violent.  Strafford  was  fully  heard.  Robespierre 
was  not  suffered  to  defend  himself.  Was  there,  then,  in 
the  case  of  Strafford,  a danger  sufficient  to  justify  an  act  of 
attainder?  We  believe  that  there  was.  We  believe  that 
the  contest  in  which  the  Parliament  was  engaged  against 
the  King  was  a contest  for  the  security  of  our  property,  for 
the  liberty  of  our  persons,  for  everything  which  makes  us  to 
differ  from  the  subjects  of  Don  Miguel.  We  believe  that 
the  cause  of  the  Commons  was  such  as  justified  them  in  re- 
sisting the  King,  in  raising  an  army,  in  sending  thousands 
of  brave  men  to  kill  and  to  be  killed.  An  act  of  attainder 
is  surely  not  more  a departure  from  the  ordinary  course  of 
law  than  a civil  war.  An  act  of  attainder  produces  much 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


713 


less  suffering  than  a civil  war.  We  are,  therefore,  unable 
to  discover  on  wliat  principle  it  can  be  maintained  that  a 
cause  which  justifies  a civil  war  will  not  justify  an  act  of  at- 
tainder. 

Many  specious  arguments  have  been  urged  against  the 
retrospective  law  by  which  Strafford  was  condemned  to 
death.  But  all  these  arguments  proceed  on  the  supposition 
that  the  crisis  was  an  ordinary  crisis.  Tlie  attainder  was, 
in  truth,  a revolutionary  measure.  It  was  part  of  a system 
of  resistance  which  oppression  had  rendered  necessary.  It 
is  as  unjust  to  judge  of  the  conduct  pursued  by  the  Long 
Parliament  towards  Strafford  on  ordinary  principles,  as  it 
would  have  been  to  indict  Fairfax  for  murder  because  he 
cut  down  a cornet  at  Naseby.  From  the  day  on  which  the 
Houses  met,  there  was  a war  waged  by  them  against  the 
King,  a war  for  all  that  they  held  dear,  a war  carried  on  at 
first  by  means  of  parliamentary  forms,  at  last  by  physical 
force ; and,  as  in  the  second  stage  of  that  war,  so  in  the 
first,  they  were  entitled  to  do  many  things  which,  in  quiet 
times,  would  have  been  culpable. 

We  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  those  who  were  after- 
wards the  most  distinguished  ornaments  of  the  King’s  party 
supported  the  bill  of  attainder.  It  is  almost  certain  that 
Hyde  voted  for  it.  It  is  quite  certain  that  Falkland  both 
voted  and  spoke  for  it.  The  opinion  of  Hampden,  as  far  as 
it  can  be  collected  from  a very  obscure  note  of  one  of  his 
speeches,  seems  to  have  been  that  the  proceeding  by  Bill 
w^as  unnecessary,  and  that  it  would  be  a better  course  to  ob- 
tain judgment  on  the  impeachment. 

During  this  year  the  Court  opened  a negotiation  with 
the  leaders  of  the  Opposition.  The  Earl  of  Bedford  was  in- 
vited to  form  an  administration  on  popular  principles.  St. 
John  was  made  solicitor-general.  Hollis  was  to  have  been 
secretary  of  state,  and  Pym  chancellor  of  the  exchequer. 
The  post  of  tutor  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  designed  for 
Hampden.  The  death  of  the  Earl  of  Bedford  prevented 
this  arrangement  from  being  carried  into  effect ; and  it  may 
be  doubted  whether,  even  if  that  nobleman’s  life  had  been 
prolonged,  Charles  would  ever  have  consented  to  surround 
himself  with  counsellors  whom  he  could  not  but  hate  and 
fear. 

Lord  Clarendon  admits  that  the  conduct  of  Hampden 
during  this  year  was  mild  and  temperate,  that  he  seemed 
disposed  rather  to  soothe  than  to  excite  the  public  mind| 


714  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  that,  wlicn  violent  and  unreasonable  motions  were  made 
by  his  followers,  he  generally  left  the  House  before  the 
division,  lest  he  should  seem  to  give  countenance  to  their 
extravagance.  Ilis  temper  was  moderate.  He  sincerely 
loved  peace.  He  felt  also  great  fear  lest  too  precipitate 
a movement  should  produce  a reaction.  The  events  which 
took  place  early  in  the  next  session  clearly  showed  that  this 
fear  was  not  unfounded. 

During  the  autumn  the  Parliament  adjourned  for  a few 
weeks.  Before  the  recess,  Hanrpden  was  despatched  to 
Scotland  by  the  House  of  Commons,  nominally  as  a com- 
missioner, to  obtain  security  for  a debt  wdiich  the  Scots  liad 
contracted  during  the  late  invasion  ; but  in  truth  that  he 
might  keep  watch  over  the  King,  wdio  had  now  repaired  to 
Edinburgh,  for  the  purpose  of  finally  adjusting  the  points  of 
difference  which  remained  bet^veen  him  and  his  northern 
subjects.  It  was  the  business  of  Hampden  to  dissuade  the 
Covenanters  from  making  their  peace  with  the  Court,  at  the 
exj^ense  of  the  popular  party  in  England. 

While  the  King  was  in  Scotland,  the  Irish  rebellion 
broke  out.  The  suddenness  and  violence  of  this  terrible 
explosion  excited  a strange  suspicion  in  the  public  mind.  The 
Queen  was  a professed  Papist.  The  King  and  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  had  not  indeed  been  reconciled  to  the  See 
of  Rome  ; but  they  had,  while  acting  towards  the  Puritan 
party  with  the  utmost  rigor,  and  speaking  of  that  party 
with  the  utmost  contempt,  shown  great  tenderness  and  re- 
spect towards  the  Catholic  religion  and  its  professors.  In 
spite  of  the  wishes  of  successive  Parliaments,  the  Prot- 
estant separatists  had  been  cruelly  persecuted.  And  at  the 
same  time,  in  spite  of  the  wishes  of  those  very  Parliaments, 
laws  which  w^ere  in  force  against  the  Papists,  and  w hich, 
unjustifiable  as  they  were,  suited  the  temper  of  that  age, 
had  not  been  carried  into  execution.  The  Protestant  non- 
conformists had  not  yet  learned  toleration  in  the  school  of 
suffering.  They  reprobated  the  partial  lenity  wdiich  the 
government  show^ed  tow^ard  idolaters,  and,  wdth  some  show 
of  reason,  ascribed  to  bad  motives  conduct  w^hich,  in  such  a 
king  as  C'harles,  and  such  a prelate  as  Laud,  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  ascribed  to  humanity  or  to  liberality  of  sentiment. 
The  violent  Armenianism  of  the  Archbishop,  his  childish 
attachment  to  ceremonies,  his  superstitious  veneration  for 
altars,  vestments,  and  painted  wdndo'ws,  his  bigoted  zeal  for 
the  constitution  and  the  juivileges  of  his  order,  his  known 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


Hi 

opinions  respecting  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy,  had  excited 
great  disgust  throughout  that  large  ]>arty  which  was  every 
(lay  becoiiiiiig  more  and  more  hostile  to  Koine,  and  more 
imd  more  inclined  to  the  doctrines  and  the  dicipline  of 
Geneva.  It  was  believed  by  many  that  the  Irish  rebellion 
had  been  secrectly  encouraged  by  the  Court ; and,  when 
the  Parliament  met  again  in  November,  after  a short  re- 
ce-ss,  the  Puritans  were  more  intractable  than  ever. 

But  that  which  Hampden  had  feared  had  come  to  pass. 
A reaction  liad  taken  place.  A large  body  of  moderate 
and  well-meaning  men,  who  had  heartily  concurred  in  the 
strong  measures  adopted  before  the  recess,  were  inclined  to 
pause.  Their  opinion  was  that,  during  many  years,  the 
country  had  been  grievously  misgoverned,  and  that  a great 
reform  had  been  necessary;  but  that  a great  reform  had 
j been  made,  that  the  grievances  of  the  nation  had  been  fully 
; redressed,  that  sufficient  vengeance  had  been  exacted  for 
the  past,  that  sufficient  security  had  been  provided  for  the 
future,  and  that  it  would,  therefore,  be  both  ungrateful  and 
unwise  to  make  any  further  attacks  on  the  royal  prerogative. 
In  support  of  this  opinion  many  plausible  arguments  had 
l)een  used.  But  to  all  these  arguments  there  is  one  short 
.answer.  The  King  could  not  be  trusted. 

At  the  head  of  those  who  might  be  called  the  Constitu- 
tional Royalists  were  Falkland,  Hyde,  and  Culpeper.  All 
these  eminent  men  had,  during  the  former  year,  been  in  very 
decided  opposition  to  the  Court.  In  some  of  those  very 
j)roceedings  with  which  their  admirers  reproach  Hampden, 
they  had  taken  a more  decided  part  than  Hampden.  They 
had  all  been  concerned  in  the  impeachment  of  Strafford. 
They  had  all,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  voted  for  the  Bill 
of  Attainder.  Certainly  none  of  them  voted  against  it. 
T'hey  had  all  agreed  to  the  act  which  made  the  consent  of 
llie  Parliament  necessary  to  a dissolution  or  prorogation. 
Hyde  had  been  among  the  most  active  of  those  who  attacked 
the  Council  of  York.  Falkland  had  voted  for  the  exclusion 
of  the  Bishops  from  the  Upper  House.  They  were  now  in- 
(dined  to  halt  in  the  path  of  reform,  perhaps  to  retrace  a 
f w of  their  steps. 

A direct  collision  soon  took  place  between  the  two  pai-- 
ties  into  which  the  House  of  Commons,  lately  at  almost  per- 
fect unity  with  itself,  was  now  divided.  The  opponents  of 
the  government  moved  that  celebrated  address  to  the  King 
wliich  is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Grand  Remonstrance. 


716 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wiutings. 


In  this  address  all  tlie  oppressive  acts  of  the  preceding  fit  H 
teen  years  were  set  fortli  witli  great  energy  of  language  ; 
and,  in  conclusion,  the  King  was  entreated  to  employ  no  9 
ministers  in  whom  the  Parliament  could  not  confide.  S 

The  debate  on  the  Remonstrance  was  long  and  stormy.  9. 
It  commenced  at  nine  in  the  morning  of  the  twenty-first  of  9‘ 
November,  and  lasted  till  after  midnight.  The  division  9; 
showed  a great  change  had  taken  place  in  the  temper  of  the  9 
House.  Though  many  members  had  retired  from  exhaus-  9 
tion,  three  hundred  voted  ; and  the  Remonstrance  was  car-  9 
ried  by  a majority  of  only  nine.  A violent  debate  followed,  9 
on  the  question  whether  the  minority  should  be  allowed  to  9 
protest  against  this  decision.  The  excitement  was  so  great  9 
that  several  members  were  on  the  point  of  proceeding  to  9 
personal  violence.  ‘‘We  had  sheathed  our  swords  in  each  9 
other’s  bowels,”  says  an  eye-witness,  “had  not  the  sagacity  9 
and  great  calmness  of  Mr.  Hampden,  by  a short  speech,  pre-  9 
vented  it.”  The  House  did  not  rise  till  two  in  the  morning  9 
The  situation  of  the  Puritan  leaders  was  now  difficult  and  9 
full  of  peril.  The  small  majority  which  they  still  had  might  9 
soon  become  a minority.  Out  of  doors,  their  supporters  in  9 
the  higher  and  middle  classes  were  beginning  to  fall  off.  9 
There  was  a growing  opinion  that  the  King  had  been  hardly  9 
used.  The  English  are  always  inclined  to  side  with  a weak  9 
party  which  is  in  the  wrong,  rather  than  with  a strong  party  m 
which  is  in  the  right.  This  may  be  seen  in  all  contests, 
from  contests  of  boxers  to  contests  of  faction.  Thus  it  M 
was  that  a violent  r(?action  took  place  in  favor  of  Charles  M 
the  Second  against  the  Whigs  in  1681.  Thus  it  was  that  9 
an  equally  violent  reaction  took  place  in  favor  of  George  9- 
the  Third  against  the  coalition  in  1784.  A similar  reaction  9 
was  beginning  to  take  place  during  the  second  year  of  the  9 
Long  Parliament.  Some  members  of  the  opposition  “had  9 
resumed,”  says  Clarendon,  “ their  old  resolution  of  leaving  S 
the  kingdom.”  Oliver  Cromwell  openly  declared  that  lie  SI 
and  many  others  Avould  have  emigrated  if  they  had  been  ^ 
left  in  a minority  on  the  question  of  the  Remonstrance. 

Charles  had  now  a last  chance  of  regaining  the  affection 
of  his  people.  If  he  could  have  resolved  to  give  his  confi-  ;|‘ 
dence  to  the  leaders  of  the  moderate  party  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  to  regulate  his  proceedings  by  their  advice,  'v 
he  miglit  have  been,  not,  indeed,  as  lie  had  been,  a despot,  j 
but  the  powerful  and  respected  king  of  a free  people.  The 
nation  might  have  enjoyed  liberty  and  repose  under  a gov* 


JOHN  UAMPDEN. 


717 


eminent  witli  Falklnnd  at  its  head,  checked  by  a constitu- 
tional 0])position  under  the  conduct  of  Hampden.  It  was 
not  necessary  that,  in  order  to  accomplish  this  happy  end, 
the  King  should  sacrifice  any  part  of  his  lawful  prerogative, 
or  submit  to  any  conditions  inconsistent  with  his  dignity. 
It  was  necessary  only  that  he  should  abstain  from  treachery, 
from  violence,  from  gross  breaches  of  the  law.  This  was 
all  that  the  nation  was  then  disposed  to  require  of  him.  And 
even  this  was  too  much. 

For  a short  time  he  seemed  inclined  to  take  a wise  and 
temperate  course.  He  resolved  to  make  Falkland  secretary 
of  state,  and  Culpeper  chancellor  of  the  exchequer.  lie  de- 
clared his  intention  of  conferring  in  a short  time  some  im- 
portant office  on  Hyde.  He  assured  these  three  persons 
that  he  would  do  nothing  relating  to  the  House  of  Commons 
without  their  joint  advice,  and  that  he  would  communicate 
all  his  designs  to  them  in  the  most  unreserved  manner. 
This  resolution,  had  he  adhered  to  it,  would  have  averted 
many  years  of  blood  and  mourning.  But  “ in  very  few 
days,”  says  Clarendon,  “ he  did  fatally  swerve  from  it.” 

On  the  third  of  January,  1642,  without  giving  the  slight- 
est hint  of  his  intention  to  those  advisers  whom  he  had  sol- 
emnly promised  to  consult,  he  sent  down  the  attorney-gen- 
eral to  impeach  Lord  Kimbolton,  Hampden,  Pym,  Hollis, 
and  two  other  members  of  the  House  of  Commons,  at  the 
bar  of  the  Lords,  on  a charge  of  High  Treason.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  find  in  the  whole  history  of  England  such  an  instance 
of  tyranny,  perfidy,  and  folly.  The  most  precious  and  an- 
cient rights  of  the  subject  were  violated  by  this  act.  Tlio 
only  way  in  which  Hampden  and  Pym  could  legally  be 
tried  for  treason  at  the  suit  of  the  King,  was  by  a petty 
jury  on  a bill  found  by  a grand  jury.  The  attorney-general 
had  no  right  to  impeach  them.  The  House  of  Lords  had 
no  right  to  try  them. 

The  Commons  refused  to  surrender  their  members.  The 
Peers  showed  no  inclination  to  usurp  the  unconstitutional 
jurisdiction  which  the  King  attempted  to  force  on  them.  A 
contest  began,  in  which  violence  and  weakness  were  on  the 
one  side,  law  and  resolution  on  the  other.  Charles  sent  an 
officer  to  seal  up  the  lodgings  and  trunks  of  the  accused 
members.  The  Commons  sent  their  sergeant  to  break  the 
seals.  The  tyrant  resolved  to  follow  up  one  outrage  by  an- 
other. In  making  the  charge,  he  had  struck  at  the  institu- 
tion of  juries.  In  executing  the  arrest,  he  struck  at  the 


718  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writing 

privileges  of  Parliament.  He  resolved  to  go  to  llic  IToiist 
ill  person  with  an  armed  force,  and  there  to  seize  tlie  leaders 
of  the  Opposition,  while  engaged  in  the  discharge  of  their 
parliamentary  duties. 

What  was  his  purpose  ? Is  it  possible  to  believe  that  he 
had  no  definite  purpose,  that  he  took  the  most  important 
step  of  his  whole  reign  without  having  for  one  moment  con- 
sidered what  might  be  its  effects  ? Is  it  possible  to  believe 
that  he  went  merely  for  the  purpose  of  making  himself  a 
laughing-stock,  that  he  intended,  if  he  had  found  the  ac- 
cused members,  and  if  they  had  refused,  as  it  was  their 
right  and  duty  to  refuse,  the  submission  which  he  illegally 
demanded,  to  leave  the  House  without  bringing  them  away  ? 
If  we  reject  both  these  suppositions,  we  must  believe,  and 
we  certainly  do  believe,  that  he  went  fully  determined  to 
carry  his  unlawful  design  into  effect  by  violence,  and,  if 
necessary,  to  shed  the  blood  of  the  chiefs  of  the  OjDposition 
on  the  very  floor  of  the  Parliament  House.  Lady  Carlisle 
conveyed  intelligence  of  the  design  to  Pym.  The  five  mem- 
bers had  time  to  withdraw  before  the  arrival  of  Charles. 
They  left  the  House  as  he  was  entering  New  Palace  Yard. 
He  was  accompanied  by  about  two  hundred  halberdiers  of 
his  guard,  and  by  many  gentlemen  of  the  Court  armed  with 
swords.  He  walked  up  Westminster  Hall.  At  the  south- 
ern end  of  thQ  Hall  his  attendants  divided  to  the  right  and 
left,  and  formed  a lane  to  the  door  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. He  knocked,  entered,  darted  a look  towards  the 
place  which  Pym  usually  occupied,  and,  seeing  it  empty, 
walked  up  to  the  table.  The  Speaker  fell  on  his  knee.  The 
members  rose  and  uncovered  their  heads  in  profound  si- 
lence, and  the  King  took  his  seat  in  the  chair.  He  looked 
round  the  House.  But  the  five  members  were  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  He  interrogated  the  Speaker.  The  Speaker  an- 
swered that  he  was  merely  the  organ  of  the  House,  and  liad 
neither  eyes  to  see,  nor  tongue  to  speak,  but  according  to 
their  direction.  The  King  muttered  a few  feeble  sentences 
about  his  respect  for  the  laws  of  the  realm,  and  the  privi- 
leges of  Parliament,  and  retired.  As  he  passed  along  the 
benches,  several  resolute  voices  called  out  audibly  ‘‘  Privi- 
lege ! ” He  returned  to  Whitehall  with  his  company  of 
bravoes,  who,  while  he  was  in  the  House,  had  been  impa- 
tiently waiting  in  the  lobby  for  the  word,  cocking  their 
pistols,  and  crying  “Fall  on.”  That  night  he  put  forth  a 
proclamation,  directing  that  the  ports  should  be  sto])pcd, 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


719 


and  that  no  person  should,  at  his  peril,  venture  to  harbor 
the  accused  members. 

Ilamiiden  and  his  friends  had  taken  refuge  in  Coleman 
Street.  The  city  of  London  was  indeed  the  fastness  of 
public  liberty,  and  was,  in  those  times,  a ])lace  of  at  least  as 
much  importance  as  Paris  during  the  French  Revolution. 
The  city,  j)roperly  so  called,  now  consists  in  a great  meas- 
ure of  immense  warehouses  and  counting-houses,  which  arc 
frequented  by  traders  and  their  clerks  during  the  day,  and 
left  in  almost  total  solitude  during  the  night.  It  was  then 
closely  inhabited  by  three  hundred  thousand  persons,  to 
y horn  it  was  not  merely  a place  of  business,  but  a place  of 
constant  residence.  This  great  capital  had  as  complete  a 
civil  and  military  organization  as  if  it  had  been  an  independ- 
ant republic.  Each  citizen  had  his  company;  and  the  com- 
panies, which  now  seem  to  exist  only  for  the  sake  of  epi- 
cures and  of  antiquaries,  were  then  formidable  brother- 
lioods,  the  members  of  which  were  almost  as  closely  bound 
together  as  the  members  of  a Highland  clan.  How  strong 
these  artificial  ties  were,  the  numerous  and  valuable  legacies 
anciently  bequeathed  by  citizens  to  their  cor23orations 
abundantly  prove.  The  municipal  offices  were  filled  by  the 
most  opulent  and  respectable  merchants  of  the  kingdom. 
The  i:)omp  of  the  magistracy  of  the  capital  was  inferior  only 
to  that  which  surrounded  the  person  of  the  sovereign.  The 
Londoners  loved  their  city  with  that  patriotic  love  which 
is  found  only  in  small  communities,  like  those  of  ancient 
Greece,  or  like  those  which  arose  in  Italy  during  the  middle 
ages.  The  numbers,  the  intelligence,  the  wealth  of  the 
citizens,  the  democratical  form  of  their  local  government, 
and  their  vicinity  to  the  Court  and  to  the  Parliament,  made 
them  one  of  the  most  formidable  bodies  in  the  kingdom. 
Even  as  soldiers  they  were  not  to  be  despised.  In  an  age  in 
which  war  is  a profession,  tliere  is  something  ludicrous  in 
the  idea  of  battalions  composed  of  ajiprentices  and  shop- 
keepers, and  officered  by  Aldermen.  But,  in  the  early  part 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  was  no  standing  army  in 
the  island ; and  the  militia  of  the  metropolis  was  not  in- 
ferior in  training  to  the  militia  of  other  places.  A city 
which  could  furnish  many  thousands  of  armed  men,  abound- 
ing in  natural  courage,  and  not  absolutely  untinctured  with 
military  discipline,  was  a formidable  auxiliary  in  times  of 
internal  dissension.  On  several  occasions  during  the  civil 
war,  the  train-bands  of  London  distinguished  themselves 


720  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

liiglily ; and  at  the  battle  of  Newbury,  in  particular,  they 
repelled  the  fiery  onset  of  Ru])ert,  and  saved  the  army  of 
the  Parliament  from  destruction. 

The  people  of  this  great  city  had  long  been  thoroughly 
devoted  to  the  national  cause.  Many  of  them  had  signed 
a protestation  in  which  they  declared  their  resolution  to  de- 
fend the  privileges  of  Parliament.  Their  enthusiasm  had 
indeed,  of  late,  begun  to  cool.  But  the  impeachment  of 
the  five  members,  and  the  insult  offered  to  the  House  of 
Commons,  inflamed  them  to  fury.  Their  houses,  their  purses, 
their  pikes,  were  at  the  command  of  the  representatives 
of  the  nation.  London  was  in  arms  all  night.  The  next 
day  the  shops  Avere  closed ; the  streets  were  filled  Avith  im- 
mense croAvds ; the  multitude  pressed  round  the  King’s 
coach,  and  insulted  him  with  opprobrious  cries.  The  House 
of  Commons,  in  the  mean  time,  appointed  a committee  to 
feit  in  the  city,  for  the  purpose  of  inquiring  into  the  circum- 
stances of  the  late  outrage.  The  members  of  the  com- 
mittee were  Avelcomed  by  a deputation  of  the  common 
council.  Merchant  Tailors’  Hall,  Goldsmiths’  Hall,  and 
Grocers’  Hall,  were  fitted  up  for  their  sittings.  A guard  of 
respectable  citizens  duly  relieved  twice  a day,  was  posted  at 
their  doors.  The  sheriffs  were  charged  to  Avatch  OA^er  the 
safety  of  the  accused  members,  and  to  escort  them  to  and 
from  the  committee  with  eA^ery  ma»i’k  of  honor. 

A ATolent  and  sudden  ro\mlsion  of  feeling,  both  in  the 
House  and  out  of  it,  was  the  effect  of  the  late  proceedings 
of  the  King.  The  Opposition  regained  in  a feAv  hours  all 
the  ascendency  Avhich  it  had  lost.  The  constitutional  royal- 
ists were  filled  Avith  shame  and  sorrow.  They  saw  that 
they  had  been  cruelly  deceived  by  Charles.  They  saw  that 
they  were,  unjustly,  but  not  unreasonably,  susj^ected  by 
the  nation.  Clarendon  distinctly  says  that  they  perfectly 
detested  the  counsels  by  Avhich  the  King  had  been  guided, 
and  were  so  much  displeased  and  dejected  at  the  unfair 
manner  in  which  he  had  treated  them  that  they  Avere  in- 
clined to  retire  from  his  serAUce.  During  the  debates  on 
the  breach  of  privilege,  they  preseiwed  a melancholy  silence. 
To  this  day  the  advocates  of  Charles  take  care  to  say  as 
little  as  they  can  about  his  visit  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
and,  when  they  cannot  avoid  mention  of  it,  attribute  to  in- 
fatuation an  act  Avhich,  on  any  other  supposition,  they  must 
admit  to  have  been  a frightful  crime. 

The  Commons,  in  a few  days,  openly  defied  the  IGng, 


xixxMrui::y 


721 


and  ordered  the  accused  members  to  attend  in  their  places 
at  Westminster  and  to  resume  their  parliamentary  duties. 
The  citizens  resolved  to  bring  back  the  champions  of  lib- 
erty in  triumph  before  the  windows  of  Whitehall.  Vast 
preparations  were  made  both  by  land  and  water  for  this 
great  festival. 

The  King  had  remained  in  his  palace,  humbled,  dis- 
mayed, and  bewildered,  ‘‘feeling,”  says  Clarendon,  “the 
trouble  and  agony  which  usually  attend  generous  and  mag- 
nanimous minds  upon  their  having  committed  errors  ; ” feel- 
ing, we  should  say,  the  despicable  repentance  which  attends 
the  man  who,  having  attempted  to  commit  a crime,  finds 
that  he  has  only  committed  a folly.  The  populace  hooted 
and  shouted  all  day  before  the  gates  of  the  royal  residence. 
The  tyrant  could  not  bear  to  see  the  triumph  of  those  whom 
he  had  destined  to  the  gallows  and  the  quartering-block. 
On  the  day  preceding  that  which  was  fixed  for  their  return, 
he  fled,  with  a few  attendants,  from  that  palace  which  he 
was  never  to  see  again  till  he  was  led  through  it  to  the 
scaffold. 

On  the  eleventh  of  January,  the  Thames  was  covered 
with  boats,  and  its  shores  with  the  gazing  multitude. 
Armed  vessels,  decorated  with  streamers,  were  ranged  in 
two  lines  from  London  Bridge  to  Westminster  Hall.  The 
members  returned  upon  the  river  in  a ship  manned  by  sail- 
ors who  had  volunteered  their  services.  The  train-bands  of 
the  city,  under  the  command  of  the  sheriffs,  marched  along 
the  Strand,  attended  by  a vast  crowd  of  spectators,  to  guard 
the  avenues  to  the  House  of  Commons ; and  thus,  with 
shouts  and  loud  discharges  of  ordnance,  the  accused  pa- 
triots were  brought  back  by  the  people  whom  they  had 
served  and  for  whom  they  had  suffered.  The  restored 
members,  as  soon  as  they  had  entered  the  House,  expressed, 
in  the  warmest  terms,  their  gratitude  to  the  citizens  of  Lont 
don.  The  sheriffs  were  warmly  thanked  by  the  Speaker  in 
the  name  of  the  Commons ; and  orders  were  given  that  a 
guard  selected  from  the  train-bands  of  the  city,  should  at- 
tend daily  to  watch  over  the  safety  of  the  Parliament. 

The  excitement  had  not  been  confined  to  London. 
When  intelligence  of  the  danger  to  which  Hampden  was 
exposed  reached  Buckinghamshire,  it  excited  the  alarm  and 
indignation  of  the  people.  Four  thousand  freeholders  of 
that  county,  each  of  them  wearing  in  his  hat  a copy  of  the 
protestation  in  favor  of  the  privilege?  of  Parliament,  rode 
Vox., 


722  Macaulay’s  mscELLANEOus  AvraxiNGS. 

up  to  London  to  defend  the  person  of  their  beloved  rep- 
resentative. They  came  in  a body  to  assure  Parliament 
of  tlieir  full  resolution  to  defend  its  privileges.  Their  peti- 
tion was  couched  in  the  strongest  terms.  “In  respect,” 
said  they,  “ of  that  latter  attempt  upon  the  honorable 
House  of  Commons,  we  are  now  come  to  offer  our  service 
to  that  end,  and  resolved,  in  their  just  defence,  to  live  and 
die.” 

A great  struggle  was  clearly  at  hand.  Hampden  had 
returned  to  Westminster  much  changed.  His  inliucnce 
had  hitherto  been  exerted  rather  to  restrain  than  to  animate 
the  zeal  of  his  party.  But  the  treachery,  the  contempt  of 
law,  the  thirst  for  blood,  which  tlie  King  had  now  shown, 
left  no  hope  of  a peaceable  adjustment.  It  was  clear  that 
Charles  must  be  either  a puppet  or  a tyrant,  that  no  obli- 
gation of  law  or  of  honor  could  bind  him,  and  that  the  only 
way  to  make  him  harmless  was  to  make  him  powerless. 

The  attack  which  the  King  had  made  on  the  five  mem- 
bers was  not  merely  irregular  in  manner.  Even  if  the 
charges  had  been  preferred  legally,  if  the  Grand  Jury  of 
Middlesex  had  found  a true  bill,  if  the  accused  persons  had 
been  arrested  under  a proper  warrant  and  at  a proper  time 
and  place,  there  would  still  have  been  in  the  proceeding 
enough  of  perfidy  and  injustice  to  vindicate  the  strongest 
measures  which  the  Opposition  could  take.  To  impeach  Pym 
and  Hampden  was  to  impeach  the  House  of  Commons.  It 
was  notoriously  on  account  of  what  they  had  done  as  mem- 
bers of  that  House  that  they  were  selected  as  objects  of 
vengeance ; and  in  what  they  had  done  as  members  of  that 
House  the  majority  had  concurred.  Most  of  the  charges 
brought  against  them  were  common  between  them  and  the 
Parliament.  They  were  accused,  indeed,  and  it  may  be  with 
reason,  of  encouraging  the  Scotch  army  to  invade  England. 
In  doing  this,  they  had  committed  what  was,  in  strictness 
of  law,  a high  offence,  the  same  offence  which  Devonshire 
and  Shrewsbury  committed  in  1688.  But  the  King  had 
promised  pardon  and  oblivion  to  those  who  had  been  the 
principals  in  the  Scotch  insurrection.  Did  it  then  consist 
with  his  honor  to  punish  the  accessaries  ? He  had  bestowed 
marks  of  his  favor  on  the  leading  Covenanters.  He  had 
given  the  great  seal  of  Scotland  to  one  chief  of  the  rebels, 
a marquisate  to  another,  an  earldom  to  Leslie,  who  had 
brought  the  Presbyterian  army  across  the  Tweed.  On 
what  principle  was  Hampden  to  be  attainted  for  advising 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


723 


what  Leslie  was  ennobled  for  doing  ? In  a court  of  law,  of 
course,  no  Englislimaii  could  plead  an  amnesty  granted  to 
the  Scots.  But,  though  not  an  illegal,  it  was  surely  an  in- 
consistent and  a most  unkingly  course,  after  pardoning 
and  promoting  the  heads  of  the  rebellion  in  one  kingdom^ 
to  hang,  draw,  and  quarter  their  accomplices  in  another. 

The  proceedings  of  the  King  against  the  five  members, 
or  rather  against  that  Parliament  which  had  concurred  in 
i almost  all  the  acts  of  the  five  members,  was  the  cause  of  ihe 
ci  vil  war.  It  was  plain  that  either  Charles  or  the  House  of 
I Commons  must  be  stripped  of  all  real  power  in  the  State. 
The  best  course  which  the  Commons  could  have  taken 
would  perhaps  have  been  to  depose  the  King,  as  their  ances- 
tors had  deposed  Edward  the  Second  and  Richard  the 
Second,  and  as  their  children  afterwards  deposed  James. 

! Had  they  done  this,  had  they  placed  on  the  throne  a prince 
I whose  character  and  whose  situation  would  have  been  a 
pledge  for  his  good  conduct,  they  might  safely  have  left  to 
that  prince  all  the  old  constitutional  prerogatives . of  the 
Crown,  the  command  of  the  armies  of  the  State,  the  power 
of  making  peers,  the  power  of  appointing  ministers,  a veto 
on  bills  passed  by  the  two  Houses.  Such  a prince,  reigning 
by  their  choice,  would  have  been  under  the  necessity  of  act- 
ing in  conformity  with  their  wishes.  But  the  public  mind 
was  not  ripe  for  such  a measure.  There  was  no  Duke  of 
Lancaster,  no  Prince  of  Orange,  no  great  and  eminent  per- 
son, near  in  blood  to  the  throne,  yet  attached  to  the  cause 
of  the  people.  Charles  was  then  to  remain  King;  and  it 
was  therefore  necessary  that  he  should  be  king  only  in  name. 
A William  the  Third,  or  a George  the  First,  whose  title  to 
the  crown  was  identical  with  the  title  of  the  people  to  their 
liberty,  might  safely  be  trusted  with  extensive  powers.  But 
new  freedom  could  not  exist  in  safety  under  the  old  tyrant. 
Since  he  was  not  to  be  deprived  of  the  name  of  king,  the 
only  course  which  was  left  was  to  make  him  a mere  trus- 
tee, nominally  seized  of  prerogatives  of  which  others  had  the 
use,  a Grand  Lama,  a lloi  Faineant^  a phantom  resembling 
those  Dagoberts  and  Childeberts  who  wore  the  badges  of 
royalty,  while  Ebroin  and  Charles  Martel  held  the  real  sov- 
ereignty of  the  State. 

The  conditions  which  the  Parliament  propounded  were 
hard,  but,  we  are  sure,  not  harder  than  those  which  even 
the  Tories,  in  the  Convention  of  1689,  would  have  imposed 
on  James,  if  it  had  been  resolved  that  James  should  con- 


T24 


Macaulay's  miscellaxVEoUs  writings* 


tinue  to  be  king.  The  chief  condition  was  that  the  com* 
rnand  of  tlie  militia  and  the  conduct  of  the  war  in  Ireland 
should  be  left  to  llie  Parliament.  On  this  point  was  that 
great  issue  joined,  whereof  the  two  parties  put  themselves 
on  God  and  on  the  sword. 

We  think,  not  only  that  the  Commons  were  justified  in 
demanding  for  themselves  the  power  to  dispose  of  the  mili- 
tary force,  but  that  it  would  have  been  absolute  insanity  in 
them  to  leave  that  force  at  the  disposal  of  the  King.  From 
the  very  beginning  of  his  reign,  it  had  evidently  been  his 
object  to  govern  by  an  army.  Ilis  third  Parliament  had 
complained,  in  the  Petition  of  Riglit,  of  his  fondness  for 
martial  laAv,  and  of  the  vexatious  manner  in  which  1 e bil- 
leted his  sohliers  on  the  people#  The  wish  nearest  the  heart 
of  Strafford  was,  as  his  letters  prove,  that  the  revenue  might 
be  brought  into  such  a state  as  would  enable  the  King  to 
keep  a standing  military  establishment.  In  1640,  Charles 
had  supi^orted  an  army  in  the  northern  counties  by  lawless 
exactions.  In  1641  he  had  engaged  in  an  intrigue,  the 
object  of  which  was  to  bring  that  army  to  London  for  the 
purpose  of  overawing  the  Parliament.  Ilis  late  conduct 
had  proved  that,  if  he  were  suffered  to  retain  even  a small 
body-guard  of  his  own  creatures  near  his  person,  the  Com- 
mons would  be  in  danger  of  outrage,  perhaps  of  massacre. 
The  Houses  were  still  deliberating  under  the  protection  of 
the  militia  of  London.  Could  the  command  of  the  whole 
armed  force  of  the  realm  have  been,  under  these  circum- 
stances, safely  confided  to  the  King?  Would  it  not  have 
been  frenzy  in  the  Parliament  to  raise  and  pay  an  army  of 
fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  men  for  the  Irish  war,  and  to 
give  to  Charles  th  bsolute  control  of  this  army,  and  the 
power  of  selecting  omoting,  and  dismissing  officers  at  his 
pleasure?  Was  it  n t probable  that  this  army  might  become 
what  it  h the  nature  of  armies  to  become,  what  so  many 
armies  formed  under  much  more  favorable  circumstances 
aave  become,  what  th^'  army  of  the  Roman  republic  became, 
what  the  army  of  the  French  republic  became,  an  in- 
strument of  despotism  ? Was  it  not  probable  that  the  sol- 
diers might  forget  that  hey  were  also  citizens,  and  might 
be  ready  to  serve  their  general  against  their  country  ? Was 
t not  certain  that,  on  the  very  first  day  on  which  Charles 
could  venture  to  revoke  his  concessions,  and  to  punish  his 
opponents,  he  would  establish  an  arbitrary  government,  and 
exact  a bloody  revenge  ? 


^OLIN 


725 


Our  OAvn  times  furnish  a parallel  case.  Suppose  that  ft 
revolution  should  take  ])lacc  in  S})ain,  that  the  Constitution 
of  Cadiz  should  be  reestablished,  that  the  Cortes  should 
meet  again,  that  the  Spanish  Prynnes  and  Burtons,  who  are 
now  wandering  in  rags  round  Leicester  Square,  should  be 
restored  to  their  country.  Ferdinand  the  Seventh  would, 
in  that  ease,  ot  course  repeat  all  the  oaths  and  promises 
which  he  made  in  1820,  and  broke  in  1823.  But  would  it 
not  be  madness  in  the  Cortes,  even  if  they  were  to  leave  him 
the  name  of  King,  to  leave  him  more  than  the  name? 

I W ould  not  all  Europe  scoff  at  them,  if  they  were  to  permit 

liim  to  assemble  a large  army  for  an  expedition  to  America, 
j to  model  that  army  at  his  pleasure,  to  put  it  under  the 
I command  of  officers  chosen  by  himself?  Should  we  not  say 
that  every  member  of  the  Constitutional  party  who  might 
concur  in  such  a measure  would  most  richly  deserve  the  fate 
which  he  would  most  probably  meet,  the  fate  of  Riego  and 
of  the  Empecinado  ? We  are  not  disposed  to  pay  compliments 
to  Ferdinand  ; nor  do  we  conceive  that  we  pay  him  any  com- 
pliment, when  we  say  that,  of  all  sovereigns  in  history,  he 
seems  to  us  most  to  resemble,  in  some  very  important  points. 
King  Charles  the  First.  Like  Charles,  he  is  pious  after  a 
certain  fashion  ; like  Charles,  he  has  made  large  concessions 
to  his  people  after  a certain  fashion.  It  is  well  for  him  that 
he  has  had  to  deal  with  men  who  bore  very  little  resemblance 
to  the  English  Puritans. 

The  Commons  would  have  the  power  of  the  sword ; the 
King  would  not  part  with  it ; and  nothing  remained  but  to 
try  the  chances  of  war.  Charles  still  had  a strong  party  in 
the  country.  His  august  office,  his  dignified  manners,  his 
solemn  protestations  that  he  would  for  the  time  to  come  re- 
spect the  liberties  of  his  subjects,  pity  for  fallen  greatness, 
fear  of  violent  innovation,  secured  to  him  many  adherents, 
lie  had  with  him  the  Church,  the  Universities,  a majority 
of  the  nobles  and  of  the  old  landed  gentry.  The  austerity 
of  the  Puritan  manners  drove  most  of  the  gay  and  dissolute 
youth  of  that  age  to  the  royal  standard.  Many  good,  brave, 
and  moderate  men,  who  disliked  his  former  conduct,  and  who 
entertained  doubts  touching  his  present  sincerity,  espoused 
his  cause  unwillingly  and  with  many  painful  misgivings,  be- 
cause,  though  they  dreaded  his  tyranny  much,  they  dreaded 
democratic  violence  more. 

On  the  other  side  was  the  great  body  of  the  middle 
orders  of  England,  the  merchants,  the  shopkeepers,  the  yeo< 


726 


MACAULAY’g  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGB. 


i^.anry,  headed  hy  a very  large  and  formidahle  minority  of 
tlie  j)eerage  .and  of  tlie  landed  gentry.  The  Karl  of  Essex, 
a man  of  respect.ahle  abilities  and  of  some  military  experi 
ence,  was  a])pointed  to  the  command  of  the  parliamentarj 
army. 

Hampden  spared  neither  his  fortune  nor  his  person  in 
the  cause.  ITo  subscribed  two  thousand  pounds  to  the  pub- 
lie  service.  He  took  a colonel’s  commission  in  the  army, 
and  v/ent  into  Buckinghamshire  to  raise  a regiment  of  in- 
fantry. Ilis  neighbors  eagerly  enlisted  under  his  command. 
Ilis  men  were  known  by  their  green  uniform,  and  by  their 
standard,  which  bore  on  one  side  the  watchword  of  the 
Parliament,  “God  with  us,”  and  on  the  other  the  device  of 
Hampden,  “Vestigia  nulla  retrorsum.”  This  motto  well 
described  the  line  of  conduct  which  he  pursued.  No  mem- 
ber of  his  party  had  been  so  temperate,  while  there  remained 
a hope  that  legal  and  peaceable  measures  might  save  the 
country.  No  member  of  his  party  showed  so  much  energy 
and  vigor  when  it  became  necessary  to  appeal  to  arms.  He 
made  himself  thoroughly  master  of  his  military  duty,  and 
“ performed  it,”  to  use  the  words  of  Clarendon,  “ upon  all 
occasions  most  punctually.”  The  regiment  which  he  had 
raised  and  trained  v/as  considered  as  one  of  the  best  in  the 
service  of  the  Parliament.  He  exposed  his  person  in  every 
action,  wdth  an  intrepidity  which  made  him  conspicuous 
even  among  thousands  of  br.ave  men.  “He  was,”  says  Clar- 
endon, “ of  a personal  courage  equal  to  his  best  j)arts ; so 
that  he  was  an  enemy  not  to  be  wished  wherever  he  might 
liave  been  made  a friend,  and  as  much  to  be  apprehended 
where  he  was  so,  as  any  man  could  deserve  to  be.”  Though 
his  military  career  was  short,  and  his  military  situation  sub- 
ordinate, he  fully  proved  that  he  possessed  the  talents  of  a 
great  general,  as  well  as  those  of  a great  statesman. 

W e shall  not  attempt  to  give  a history  of  the  war.  Lord 
Nugent’s  account  of  the  military  operations  is  very  ani- 
mated and  striking.  Our  abstract  would  be  dull,  and  proba- 
bly unintelligible.  There  was,  in  fact,  for  some  time  no 
great  and  connected  system  of  operations  on  either  side. 
The  war  of  the  two  parties  was  like  the  war  of  Arimanes 
an  1 Oromasdes,  neither  of  whom,  according  to  the  Eastern 
theologians,  has  any  exclusive  domain,  who  are  equally 
omnipresent,  who  equally  pervade  all  space,  who  carry  on 
their  eternal  strife  within  every  particle  of  matter.  There 
was  a petty  war  in  almost  every  county.  A town  furnislied 


JOHN  n\MPDEN. 


727 


troops  to  the  Pai*liament  wliile  the  manor-house  of  the 
neighboring  peer  was  garrisoned  for  tlie  King.  The  com- 
batants were  rarely  disposed  to  march  far  from  their  own 
homes.  It  was  reserved  for  Fairfax  and  Cromwell  to  ter- 
minate this  desultory  warfare,  by  moving  one  overwhelming 
force  successively  against  all  the  scattered  fragments  of  the 
royal  party. 

It  is  a remarkable  circumstance  that  the  officers  who  had 
studied  tactics  in  what  were  considered  as  the  best  schools, 
under  Vere  in  the  Netherlands,  and  under  Gustavus  Adol- 
phus in  Germany,  displayed  far  less  skill  than  those  com- 
manders who  had  been  bred  to  peaceful  employments,  and 
who  never  saw  even  a skirmish  till  the  civil  war  broke  out. 
An  unlearned  person  might  hence  be  inclined  to  suspect 
that  the  military  art  is  no  very  profound  mystery,  that  its 
principles  are  the  principles  of  plain  good  sense,  and  that  a 
quick  eye,  a cool  head,  and  a stout  heart,  will  do  more  to 
make  a general  than  all  the  diagrams  of  elomini.  This, 
however,  is  certain,  that  Hampden  showed  himself  a far 
better  officer  than  Essex,  and  CroniAvell  than  Leslie. 

The  military  errors  of  Essex  were  probably  in  some  de- 
gree produced  by  political  timidity.  He  was  honestly,  but 
not  warmly,  attached  to  the  cause  of  the  Parliament ; 
and  next  to  a great  defeat  he  dreaded  a great  victory. 
Hampden,  on  the  other  hand,  was  for  vigorous  and  decisive 
measures.  When  he  drew  the  sword,  as  Clarendon  has  well 
said,  he  threw  away  the  scabbard.  He  had  shown  that  he 
knew  better  than  any  public  man  of  his  time  how  to  value 
and  how  to  practise  moderation.  But  he  knew  that  the 
essence  of  war  is  violence,  and  that  moderation  in  war  is 
imbecility.  On  several  occasions,  particularly  during  the 
operations  in  the  neighborhood  of  Brentford,  he  remon- 
strated earnestly  with  Essex.  Wherever  he  commanded 
separately,  the  boldness  and  rapidity  of  his  movements  pre- 
sented a striking  contrast  to  the  sluggishness  of  his  superior. 

In  the  Parliament  he  possessed  b^oundless  influence.  His 
employments  towards  the  close  of  1642  have  been  described 
by  Denham  in  some  lines  which,  though  intended  to  be  sar- 
castic, convey  in  truth  the  highest  eulogy.  Hampden  is 
described  in  this  satire  as  perpetually  passing  and  repassing 
between  the  military  station  at  Windsor  and  the  House  of 
Commons  at  Westminster,  as  overawing  the  general,  and  as 
giving  law  to  that  Parliament  which  knew  no  other  law.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  he  organized  that  celebrated  associar 


728 


MACAUJ.AY  S MISC’KLLANEOUS  VYJailNGS. 


tion  of  counties,  to  wliicli  his  party  was  principally  indebted 
for  its  victory  over  the  King. 

In  the  early  part  of  1643,  the  shires  lying  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  London,  which  were  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the 
Parliament,  were  incessantly  annoyed  by  Rupert  and  his 
cavalry.  Essex  had  extended  his  lines  so  far  that  almost 
every  point  was  vulnerable.  The  young  prince,  who,  though 
not  a great  general,  was  an  active  and  enterprising  partisan, 
frequently  surprised  posts,  burned  villages,  swept  away  cat 
tie,  and  was  again  at  Oxford  before  a force  sufficient  to  en 
counter  him  could  be  assembled. 

The  languid  proceedings  of  Essex  were  loudly  con- 
demned by  the  troops.  All  the  ardent  and  daring  spirits  in 
the  parliamentary  party  were  eager  to  have  Hampden  at 
their  head.  Had  his  life  been  prolonged,  there  is  every  rea- 
son to  believe  that  the  supreme  command  would  ha^  e been 
intrusted  to  him.  But  it  was  decreed,  that  at  this  conjunc- 
ture, England  should  lose  the  only  man  who  united  perfect 
disinterestedness  to  eminent  talents,  the  only  man  who, 
being  capable  of  gaining  the  victory  for  her,  was  incajDable 
of  abusing  that  victory  when  gained. 

In  the  evening  of  the  seventeenth  of  June,  Rupert  darted 
out  of  Oxford  with  his  cavalry  on  a predatory  expedition. 
At  three  in  the  morning  of  the  following  day,  he  attacked 
and  dispersed  a few  parliamentary  soldiers  who  lay  at 
Postcombe.  He  then  flew  to  Chinnor,  burned  the  village, 
killed  or  took  all  the  troops  who  were  quartered  there,  and 
prepared  to  hurry  back  with  his  booty  and  his  prisoners  to 
Oxford. 

Hampden  had,  on  the  preceding  day,  strongly  represented 
to  Essex  the  danger  to  which  this  part  of  the  line  was  ex- 
posed. As  soon  as  he  received  intelligence  of  Rupert’s 
incursion,  he  sent  off  a horseman  with  a message  to  the 
General.  The  cavaliers,  he  said,  could  return  only  by 
Chiselhampton  Bridge.  A force  ought  to  bo  instantly 
despatched  in  that  direction  for  the  purpose  of  intercepting 
them.  In  the  meantime,  he  resolved  to  set  out  with  all  tho 
cavalry  that  he  could  muster,  for  the  purpose  of  impeding 
the  march  of  the  enemy  till  Essex  could  take  measures  for 
cutting  off  their  retreat.  A considerable  body  of  horse  and 
dragoons  volunteered  to  follow  him.  He  was  not  their 
commander.  He  did  not  even  belong  to  their  branch  of 
the  service.  But  “ he  was,”  says  Lord  Clarendon,  second 
%Q  none  but  the  General  himself  in  the  observance  and  ap 


JOHN  HAMPDEN. 


729 


plication  of  all  men/’  On  the  field  of  Chalgrove  he  came 
up  with  Rupert.  A fierce  skirmish  ensued.  In  the  first 
charge,  Hampden  Avas  struck  in  the  shoulder  by  two  bul- 
lets, which  broke  the  bone,  and  lodged  in  his  body.  The 
troops  of  the  Parliament  lost  heart  and  gave  way.  Rupert, 
after  pursuing  them  for  a short  time,  hastened  to  cross  the 
bridge,  and  made  his  retreat  unmolested  to  Oxford. 

Hampden,  with  his  head  drooping,  and  his  hands  leaning 
on  his  horse’s  neck,  moved  feebly  out  of  the  battle.  The 
mansion  which  had  been  inhabited  by  his  father-in-law,  and 
from  which  in  his  youth  he  had  carried  home  his  bride 
Elizabeth,  Avas  in  sight.  There  still  remains  an  affecting 
tradition  that  he  looked  for  a moment  towards  that  beloved 
house,  and  made  an  effort  to  go  thither  to  die.  But  tlie 
enemy  lay  in  that  direction.  He  turned  his  horse  towards 
Thame,  where  he  arrived  almost  fainting  with  agony.  The 
surgeons  dressed  his  wounds.  But  there  was  no  hope.  The 
pain  which  he  suffered  was  most  excruciating.  But  he  en- 
dured it  with  admirable  firmness  and  resignation.  His  first 
care  was  for  his  country.  He  wrote  from  his  bed  several 
letters  to  London  concerning  public  affairs,  and  sent  a last 
pressing  message  to  the  headquarters,  recommending  that 
the  dispersed  forces  should  be  concentrated.  When  his 
public  duties  Avere  performed,  he  calmly  prepared  himself 
to  die.  He  was  attended  by  a clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England,  Avith  Avhom  he  had  lived  in  habits  of  intimacy, 
and  by  the  chaplain  of  the  Buckinghamshire  Green-coats, 
Dr.  Spur  ton,  Avhom  Baxter  describes  as  a famous  and  excel- 
lent divine. 

A short  time  before  Hampden’s  death  the  sacrament  was 
administered  to  him.  He  declared  that,  though  he  disliked 
the  government  of  the  Church  of  England,  he  yet  agreed 
with  that  Church  as  to  all  essential  matters  of  doctrine. 
His  intellect  remained  unclouded.  When  all  was  nearly 
over,  he  lay  murmuring  faint  prayers  for  himself,  and  for 
tlie  cause  in  which  he  died.  Lord  Jesus,”  he  exclaimed,  in 
the  moment  of  the  last  agony,  “ receive  my  soul.  O Lord, 

save  my  country.  O Lord,  be  merciful  to .”  In  that 

broken  ejaculation  passed  aAvay  his  noble  and  fearless  spirit. 

He  was  buried  in  the  parish  church  of  Hampden.  His 
soldiers,  bareheaded,  with  reversed  arms  and  muflied  drums 
and  colors,  escorted  his  body  to  the  graA^e,  singing,  as  they 
marched,  that  lofty  and  melancholy  psalm  in  which  the 
fragility  of  human  life  is  contrasted  with  the  immutability 


730 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WETTINGS. 


of  Him  to  Avliom  a thousand  years  are  as  yesterday  when  it 
is  ])Jissed,  and  as  a waU‘li  in  the  night. 

The  news  of  Hampden’s  death  j)roduced  as  great  a con- 
sternation in  liis  party,  according  to  Clarendon,  as  if  their 
whole  army  had  been  cut  off.  The  journals  of  the  time 
amj)ly  prove  tliat  the  Parliament  and  all  its  friends  were 
filled  with  grief  and  dismay.  Lord  Nugent  has  quoted  a 
remarkable  ])assage  from  the  next  Weekly  Intelligencer. 
‘‘The  loss  of  Colonel  Hampden  goeth  near  the  heart  of 
every  man  that  loves  the  good  of  his  king  and  country,  and 
makes  some  conceive  little  content  to  be  at  the  army  now 
that  he  is  gone.  The  memory  of  this  deceased  colonel  is 
such,  that  in  no  age  to  come  but  it  will  more  and  more  be 
had  in  honor  and  esteem  ; a man  so  religious,  and  of  that 
prudence,  judgment,  temper,  valor,  and  integrity,  that  he 
hath  left  few  his  like  behind.” 

He  had  indeed  left  none  his  like  behind  him.  There 
still  remained,  indeed,  in  his  party,  many  acute  intellects, 
many  eloquent  tongued,  many  brave  and  honest  hearts. 
There  still  remained  a rugged  and  clownish  soldier,  half 
fanatic,  half  buffoon,  whose  talents,  discerned  as  yet  only 
by  one  penetrating  eye,  were  equal  to  all  the  highest  duties 
of  the  soldier  and  the  prince.  But  in  Hampden,  and  in 
Hampden  alone,  were  united  all  the  qualities  which,  at  such 
a crisis,  were  necessary  to  save  the  state,  the  valor  and  en- 
crgy  of  Cromwell,  the  discernment  and  eloquence  of  Vane, 
tlie  humanity  and  moderation  of  Manchester,  the  stern  in- 
tegrity of  Hale,  the  ardent  public  spirit  of  Sydney.  Others 
might  possess  the  qualities  which  were  necessary  to  save  the 
popular  party  in  the  crisis  of  danger ; he  alone  had  both  the 
})ov>^er  and  the  inclination  to  restrain  its  excesses  in  the  hour 
of  triumph.  Otliers  could  conquer ; he  alone  could  recon- 
cile. A heart  as  bold  as  his  brought  up  the  cuirassiers  who 
turned  the  tide  of  battle  on  Marston  Moor.  As  skilful  an 
eye  as  his  watched  the  Scotch  army  descending  from  the 
heights  over  Dunbar.  But  it  was  when  to  the  suTen  tyr- 
anny of  Laud  and  Charles  had  succeeded  the  fierce  conflict 
of  sects  and  factions,  ambitious  of  ascendency  and  burning 
for  revenge,  it  was  when  the  vices  and  ignorance  which  the 
old  tyranny  had  generated  threatened  the  new  freedom  with 
destruction,  that  England  missed  the  sobriety,  the  self-com- 
mand, the  perfect  soundness  of  judgment,  the  perfect  recti- 
tude of  intention,  to  which  the  history  of  revolutions  fur- 
nishes no  parallel,  or  furnishes  a parallel  in  Washington  alone. 


BCBLEiaH  Aia>  HIS  XLUKS. 


731 


BURLEIGH  AND  HIS  TIMES  * 

(Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1832.) 

The  work  of  Dr.  Nares  has  filled  us  with  astonishment 
Bimilar  to  that  which  Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver  felt  when  he 
first  landed  in  Brobdingnag,  and  saw  corn  as  high  as  the 
oaks  in  the  New  Forest,  thimbles  as  large  as  buckets,  and 
wrens  of  the  bulk  of  turkeys.  The  whole  book,  and  every 
component  part  of  it,  is  on  a gigantic  scale.  The  title  is  as 
long  as  an  ordinary  preface ; the  prefatory  matter  would 
furnish  out  an  ordinary  book;  and  the  book  contains  as 
much  reading  as  an  ordinary  library.  We  cannot  sum  up 
the  merits  of  the  stupendous  mass  of  paper  which  lies  before 
us  better  than  by  saying  that  it  consists  of  about  two  thou- 
sand closely  printed  quarto  pages,  that  it  occupies  fifteen 
hundred  inches  cubic  measure,  and  that  it  weighs  sixty 
pounds  avoirdupois.  Such  a book  might,  before  the  deluge, 
have  been  considered  as  light  reading  by  Hilpa  and  Shalum. 
But  unhappily  the  life  of  man  is  now  threescore  years  and 
ten ; and  we  cannot  but  think  it  somewhat  unfair  in  Dr. 
Nares  to  demand  from  us  so  large  a portion  of  so  short  an 
existence. 

Compared  with  the  labor  of  reading  through  these  vol- 
umes, all  other  labor,  the  labor  of  thieves  on  the  treadmill, 
of  children  in  factories,  of  negroes  in  sugar  plantations,  is 
an  agreeable  recreation.  There  was,  it  is  said,  a criminal  in 
Italy,  who  was  suffered  to  make  his  choice  between  Guic- 
ciardini and  the  galleys.  He  chose  the  history.  But  the 
war  of  Pisa  was  too  much  for  him.  He  chq^nged  his  mind 
and  went  to  the  oar.  Guicciardini,  though  certainly  not  the 
most  amusing  of  writers,  is  a Herodotus  or  a Froissart,  when 
compared  with  Dr.  Nares.  It  is  not  merely  in  bulk,  but  in 
specific  gravity  also,  that  these  memoirs  exceed  all  other 
human  (compositions.  On  every  subject  which  the  Professor 

* Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Administration  of  the  Bight  Honorable  William  Cedi 
Lord  Burghleifi  Secretary  of  State  in  the  Beign  of  King  Edward  the  Sixth,  and 
Lord  High  Treasurer  of  England  in  the  Beign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Containing 
an  Historical  View  of  the  Times  in  which  he  lived,  and  of  the  many  eminent  ana 
illustrious  Persons  with  whom  he  was  connected;  with  Extracts  from  his  Private 
and  Official  Correspondence  and  other  Papers,  now  first  published  from,  the  Origin- 
als.  By  the  Reverend  Edward  Nares,  Regius  Professor  of  Modern 

History  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  3 vols,  4lo,  London:  1828-1832. 


;32 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLAI^EOUS  WKITINGS7* 


discusses,  he  produces  three  times  as  many  pages  as  another 
man;  and  one  of  his  ]>agcs  is  as  tedious  as  another  man's 
three.  Ilis  hook  is  swelled  to  its  vast  dimensions  by  endless 
repetitions,  by  ej)isodes  which  have  notliing  to  do  with  the 
main  action,  by  quotations  from  books  whicli  are  in  every 
circulating  library,  and  by  reflections  whicli,  when  they 
happen  to  be  just,  are  so  obvious  that  they  must  necessarily 
occur  to  the  mind  of  every  reader.  He  em|)loys  more  w^ords 
in  expounding  and  defending  a truism  than  any  other  writer 
would  employ  in  supporting  a jiaradox.  Of  the  rules  of 
historical  perspective,  he  has  not  tlie  faintest  notion.  There 
is  neither  foreground  nor  background  in  his  delineation. 
The  wars  of  Charles  the  Fifth  in  Germany  are  detailed  at 
almost  as  much  lengtli  as  in  Itobertson’s  life  of  that  prince. 
The  troubles  of  Scotland  are  related  as  fully  as  in  M‘Crie’s 
Life  of  John  Knox.  It  Avould  be  most  unjust  to  deny  that 
Dr.  Nares  is  a man  of  great  industry  and  research ; but  he  is 
so  utterly  incompetent  to  arrange  the  materials  which  he  has 
collected  that  he  might  as  well  have  left  them  in  their  orig- 
inal repositories. 

Neither  the  facts  which  Dr.  Wares  has  discovered,  nor 
the  arguments  Avhich  he  urges,  will,  we  apprehend,  materi- 
ally alter  the  opinion  generally  entertained  by  judicious 
readers  of  history  concerning  his  hero.  Lord  Burleigh  can 
hardly  be  called  a great  man.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
whose  genius  and  energy  change  the  fate  of  empires.  He 
was  by  nature  and  habit  one  of  those  Avho  follow,  not  one 
of  those  who  lead.  Nothing  that  is  recorded,  either  of  his 
words  or  of  his  actions,  indicates  intellectual  or  moral  eleva- 
tion. But  his  talents,  though  not  brilliant,  were  of  an  emi- 
nently useful  kind  ; and  his  principles,  though  not  inflexible, 
W'ere  not  more  relaxed  than  those  of  his  associates  and  com- 
petitors. He  had  a cool  temper,  a sound  judgment,  great 
powers  of  application,  and  a constant  eye  to  the  main 
chance.  In  his  youth,  ho  was,  it  seems,  fond  of  practical 
jokes.  Yet  even  out  of  these  he  contrived  to  extract  some 
pecuniary  profit.  When  he  was  studying  the  law  at  Gray’s 
Inn,  he  lost  all  his  furniture  and  books  at  the  gaming  table 
to  one  of  his  friends.  He  accordingly  bored  a hole  in  the 
w^all  which  separated  his  chambers  from  those  of  his  associ- 
ate, and  at  midnight  bellowed  through  this  passage  threats 
of  damnation  and  calls  to  repentance  in  the  ears  of  the  vic- 
torious gambler,  who  lay  sweating  with  fear  all  night,  and 
refunded  his  winnings  on  his  knees  next  day.  “ Many 


liLKLEIGll  a:<d  i:is  times. 


733 


other  the  like  merry  jests,”  says  his  old  biographer,  “I  have 
heard  him  tell,  too  long  to  be  here  noted.”  To  the  last, 
Burleigh  was  somewhat  jocose ; and  some  of  his  sportive 
sayings  have  been  recorded  by  Bacon.  They  show  much 
more  shrewdness  than  generosity,  and  are,  indeed,  neatly 
expressed  reasons  for  exacting  money  rigorously,  and  for 
keeping  it  carefully.  It  must,  however,  be  acknowledged 
that  he  was  rigorous  and  careful  for  the  public  advantage  as 
well  as  for  his  own.  To  extol  his  moral  character  as  Dr. 
Nares  has  extolled  it  is  absurd.  It  would  be  equally  absurd 
to  represent  him  as  a corrupt,  rapacious,  and  bad-li€arted 
man.  He  paid  great  attention  to  the  interests  of  the  state, 
and  great  attention  also  to  the  interest  of  his  own  family. 
He  never  deserted  his  friends  till  it  was  very  inconvenient 
to  stand  by  them,  was  an  excellent  Protestant  when  it  was 
not  very  advantageous  to  be  a Papist,  recommended  a toler- 
ant policy  to  his  mistress  as  strongly  as  he  could  recommend 
it  without  hazarding  her  favor,  never  put  to  the  rack  any 
person  from  whom  it  did  not  seem  probable  that  useful  infor- 
mation might  be  derived,  and  was  so  moderate  in  his  desires 
that  he  left  only  three  hundred  distinct  landed  estates, 
though  he  might,  as  his  honest  servant  assures  us,  have  left 
much  more,  “ if  he  would  have  taken  money  out  of  the  Ex- 
chequer for  his  own  use,  as  many  Treasurers  have  done.” 

Burleigh,  like  the  old  Marquess  of  Winchester,  who 
preceded  him  in  the  custody  of  the  White  Staff,  was  of  the 
willow,  and  not  of  the  oak.  He  first  rose  into  notice  by  de- 
fending the  supremacy  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  He  was  subse- 
quently favored  and  promoted  by  the  Duke  of  Somerset. 
He  not  only  contrived  to  escape  unhurt  when  his  patron 
fell,  but  became  an  important  member  of  the  administration 
of  Northumberland.  Dr.  Nares  assures  us  over  and  over 
again  that  there  could  have  been  nothing  base  in  Cecil’s  con- 
duct on  this  occasion ; for,  says  he,  Cecil  continued  to  stand 
well  with  Cranmer.  This,  we  confess,  hardly  satisfies  us. 
We  are  much  of  the  mind  of  Falstaff’s  tailoi  We  must 
have  better  assurance  for  Sir  John  than  Bardolph’s.  We 
like  not  the  security. 

Through  the  whole  course  of  that  miserable  intrigue 
which  was  carried  on  round  the  dying  bed  of  Edward  the 
Sixth,  Cecil  so  bemeaned  himself  as  to  avoid,  first,  the  dis- 
pleasure of  Northumberland,  and  afterwards  the  displeasure 
of  Mary.  He  was  prudently  unwilling  to  j)ut  his  hand  to 
the  instrument  which  changed  the  course  of  the  succession, 


734  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkitings. 

But  the  furious  Dudley  was  master  of  tlie  palace.  Cecil, 
tliereforc,  according  to  his  own  account,  excused  himself 
from  signing  as  a party,  but  consented  to  sign  as  a witness. 
It  is  not  easy  to  describe  his  dexterous  conduct  at  tliis  most 
perplexing  crisis,  in  language  more  appropriate  than  that 
which  is  employed  by  old  Fuller.  “Ilis  hand  wrote  it 
ns  secretary  of  state,”  says  that  quaint  writer ; “ but  his 
heart  consented  not  thereto.  Yea,  he  o]>enly  opposed  it ; 
though  at  last  yielding  to  the  gi’eatnessof  Northumberland, 
in  an  age  when  it  was  present  drowning  not  to  swim  with 
the  stream.’  But  as  the  philosopher  tells  us,  that,  thougli 
the  planets  be  whirled  about  daily  from  east  to  west,  by 
the  motion  of  ^^primum  mobile^  yet  have  they  also  a con- 
trary proper  motion  of  their  own  from  west  to  east,  which 
they  slowly,  though  surely,  move  at  their  leisure ; so  Cecil 
had  secret  counter-endeavors  against  the  strain  of  the 
court  herein,  and  privately  advanced  his  rightful  intentions 
against  the  foresaid  duke’s  ambition.” 

This  was  undoubtedly  the  most  perilous  conjuncture  of 
Cecil’s  life.  Wherever  there  was  a safe  course  he  was  safe. 
But  here  every  course  was  full  of  danger,  llis  situation 
rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  be  neutral.  If  he  acted 
on  either  side,  if  he  refused  to  act  at  all,  he  ran  a fearful  risk, 
lie  saw  all  the  difficulties  of  his  position.  He  sent  his 
money  and  plate  out  of  London,  made  over  his  estates  to 
his  son,  and  carried  arms  about  his  person.  His  best  arms, 
however,  were  his  sagacity  and  his  self-command.  The 
plot  in  which  he  had  been  an  unwilling  accomplice  ended, 
as  it  was  natural  that  so  odious  and  absurd  a plot  should 
end,  in  the  ruin  of  its  contrivers.  In  the  meantime,  Cecil 
quietly  extricated  himself,  and,  having  been  successively 
patronized  by  Henry,  by  Somerset,  and  by  Northumberland, 
continued  to  flourish  under  the  protection  of  Mary. 

He  had  no  aspirations  after  the  crown  of  martyrdom. 
He  confessed  himself,  therefore,  with  great  decorum,  heard 
mass  in  Wimbledon  Church  at  Easter,  and,  for  the  better 
ordering  of  his  spiritual  concerns,  took  a priest  into  his 
house.  Dr.  Nares,  whose  simplicity  passes  that  of  any 
casuist  with  whom  we  are  acquainted,  vindicates  his  hero 
by  assuring  us  that  this  was  not  superstition,  but  pure  un- 
mixed hypocrisy.  “ That  he  did  in  some  manner  conform, 
we  shall  not  be  able,  in  the  face  of  existing  documents,  to 
deny  ; while  we  feel  in  our  own  minds  abundantly  satis- 
6ed,  that,  during  this  very  trying  reign,  he  never  abau- 


BURLEIGH  AND  IITS  TIMES. 


785 


(loned  tlio  prospect  of  anotlier  revolution  in  f<Tvor  of 
Protestantism.”  In  anotlier  jilace,  the  Doctor  tells  us  tliat 
Cecil  went  to  mass  “with  no  idolatrous  intention.”  No- 
body, we  believe,  ever  accused  him  of  idolatrous  intentions. 
The  very  ground  of  the  charge  against  him  is  that  he  had 
no  idolatrous  intentions.  We  never  should  have  blamed 
him  if  he  had  really  gone  to  Wimbledon  Church  with  the 
feelings  of  a good  Catholic,  to  worship  the  host.  Dr.  Nares 
speaks  in  several  places  with  just  severity  of  the  sophistry 
of  the  Jesuits,  and  with  just  admiration  of  the  incompar- 
able letters  of  Pascal.  It  is  somewhat  strange,  therefore, 
that  he  should  adopt,  to  the  full  extent,  the  jesuitical  doc- 
trine of  the  direction  of  intentions. 

We  do  not  blame  Cecil  for  not  choosing  to  be  burned. 
The  deep  stain  upon  his  memory  is  that,  for  differences  of 
opinion  for  which  he  would  risk  nothing  himself,  he,  in  the 
day  of  his  power,  took  away  without  scruple  the  lives  of 
others.  One  of  the  excuses  suggested  in  these  Memoirs  for 
his  conforming,  during  the  reign  of  Mary,  to  the  Church  of 
Rome,  is  that  he  may  have  been  of  the  same  mind  with  those 
German  Protestants  who  v/ere  called  Adiaphorists,  and  who 
considered  the  po})ish  rites  as  matters  indifferent.  Melaiic- 
Ihon  was  one  of  these  moderate  persons,  “ and  appears,” 
says  Dr.  Nares,  “ to  have  gone  greater  lengths  than  any 
imputed  to  Lord  Burleigh.”  We  should  have  thought  this 
not  only  an  excuse,  but  a complete  vindication,  if  Cecil  had 
been  an  Adiaphorist  for  the  benefit  of  others  as  well  as  for 
his  own.  If  the  popish  rites  were  matters  of  so  little  mo- 
ment that  a good  Protestant  might  lawfully  practise  them 
for  his  safety,  how  could  it  be  just  or  humane  that  a Papist 
should  be  hwnged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  for  practising  them 
from  a sense  of  duty?  Unhappily  these  non-essentials  soon 
became  matters  of  life  and  death.  Just  at  the  very  time  at 
which  Cecil  attained  the  highest  point  of  power  and  favor, 
an  Act  of  Parliament  was  passed  by  which  the  penalties  of 
high  treason  were  denounced  against  persons  who  should  do 
ill  sincerity  what  he  had  done  from  cowardice. 

Early  in  the  reign  of  Mary,  Cecil  was  employed  in  a 
mission  scarcely  consistent  with  the  character  of  a zealous 
Protestant.  He  was  sent  to  escort  the  Papal  Legate,  Car- 
dinal Pole,  from  Brussels  to  London.  That  great  body  of 
moderate  persons  who  cared  more  for  the  quiet  of  the  realm 
than  for  the  controverted  points  which  were  in  issue  be- 
tween the  Churches  seem  to  have  placed  their  chief  hope  in 


736  Macaulay’s  miscellankous  writings. 

the  wisdom  and  humanity  of  tlie  gentle  Cardinal.  Cecil,  it 
is  clear,  cultivated  the  friendship  of  Pole  with  great  assiduity, 
and  received  great  advantage  from  the  Legate’s  protection. 

But  the  best  protection  of  Cecil,  during  the  gloomy  and 
disastrous  reign  of  Mary,  was  that  which  he  derived  from 
his  own  prudence  and  from  his  own  temper,  a prudence 
which  could  never  be  lulled  into  carelessness,  a temper  which 
03uld  never  be  irritated  into  rashness.  The  Papists  could 
find  no  occasion  against  him.  Yet  he  did  not  lose  the  ea. 
teem  even  of  those  sterner  Protestants  who  had  preferred 
exile  to  recantation.  He  attached  himself  to  the  persecuted 
heiress  of  the  throne,  and  entitled  himself  to  her  gratitude 
and  confidence.  Yet  he  continued  to  receive  marks  of  favor 
from  the  Queen.  In  the  House  of  Commons,  he  put  him- 
self at  the  head  of  the  party  opposed  to  the-  Court.  Yet,  so 
guarded  was  his  language  that,  even  when  some  of  those 
who  acted  with  him  were  imprisoned  by  the  Privy  Council, 
he  escaped  with  impunity. 

At  length  Mary  died : Elizabeth  succeeded ; and  Cecil 
rose  at  once  to  greatness.  He  was  sworn  in  Privy-council- 
lor and  Secretary  cf  State  to  the  new  sovereign  before  he 
left  her  prison  of  Hatfield  ; and  he  continued  to  serve  her 
during  forty  years,  without  intermission,  in  the  highest  em- 
ployments. His  abilities  were  precisely  those  which  keep 
men  long  in  power.  He  belonged  to  the  class  of  the  Wal- 
poles, the  Pelhams,  and  the  Liverpools,  not  to  that  of  the  St. 
Johns,  the  Carterets,  the  Chathams,  and  the  Cannings.  If 
he  had  been  a man  of  original  genius  and  of  an  enterprising 
spirit,  it  would  have  been  scarcely  possible  for  him  to  keep 
his  power  or  even  his  head.  There  was  not  room  in  one 
government  for  an  Elizabeth  and  a Richelieu.  What  the 
haughty  daughter  of  Henry  needed,  was  a moderate,  cau- 
tiouiS,  flexible  minister,  skilled  in  the  details  of  business, 
competent  to  advise,  but  not  aspiring  to  command.  And 
such  a minister  she  found  in  Burleigh.  No  arts  could  shake 
the  confidence  which  she  reposed  in  her  old  and  trusty 
servant.  The  courtly  graces  of  Leicester,  the  brilliant  tal- 
ents and  accomplishments  of  Essex,  touched  the  fancy,  per- 
haps the  heart,  of  the  woman  ; but  no  rival  could  deprive  the 
Treasurer  of  the  place  which  he  possessed  in  the  favor  of  the 
Queen.  She  sometimes  chid  him  sharply  ; but  he  was  the 
man  whom  she  delighted  to  honor.  Eor  Burleigh,  she  for- 
got her  usual  parsimony  both  of  wealth  and  of  dignities.  For 
Burleigh,  she  relaxed  that  severe  etiquette  to  which  she  was 


fetJRLElGII  AND  HIS  TIMES. 


ioi 


unreasonably  attached.  Every  other  person  to  whom  she 
addressed  her  speech,  or  on  whom  tlie  glance  of  her  eagle 
eye  fell,  instantly  sank  on  his  knee.  For  Burleigh  alone,  a 
chair  was  set  in  her  presence ; and  there  the  old  minister, 
by  birth  only  a plain  Lincolnshire  esquire,  took  his  ease, 
while  the  haughty  heirs  of  the  Fitzalans  and  the  De  Veres 
humbled  themselves  to  the  dust  around  him.  At  length, 
having  survived  all  his  early  coadjutors,  and  rivals,  he  died 
full  of  years  and  honors.  His  royal  mistress  visited  him  on 
his  death-bed,  and  cheered  him  with  assurances  of  her  affec- 
tion and  esteem ; and  his  power  passed,  with  little  direinu- 
tion,  to  a son  who  inherited  his  abilities,  and  whose  mind 
had  been  formed  by  his  counsels. 

The  life  of  Burleigh  was  commensurate  with  one  of  tiie 
most  important  periods  in  the  history  of  the  world.  It 
exactly  measures  the  time  during  which  the  House  of  Austria 
held  decided  superiority  and  aspired  to  universal  dominion. 
In  the  year  in  which  Burleigh  was  born,  Charles  the  Fifth 
obtained  the  imperial  crown.  In  the  year  in  which  Burleigh 
died,  the  vast  designs  which  had,  during  near  a century, 
kept  Europe  in  constant  agitation,  were  buried  in  the  same 
grave  with  the  proud  and  sullen  Philip. 

The  life  of  Burleigh  was  commensurate  also  with  the 
period  during  which  a great  moral  revolution  was  effected, 
a revolution  the  consequences  of  which  were  felt,  not  only 
in  the  cabinets  of  princes,  but  at  half  the  firesides  in  Christen- 
dom. He  was  born  when  the  great  religious  schism  was 
just  commencing.  He  lived  to  see  that  schism  complete, 
and  to  see  a line  of  demarcation,  which,  since  his  death,  has 
been  very  little  altered,  strongly  drawn  between  Protestant 
and  Catholic  Europe. 

The  only  event  of  modern  times  which  can  be  properly 
compared  with  the  Reformation  is  the  French  Revolution, 
or,  to  speak  more  jy^icurately,  that  great  revolution  of 
political  feeling  which  took  place  in  almost  every  part  of 
the  civilized  world  during  the  eighteenth  century,  and  which 
obtained  in  France  its  most  terrible  and  signal  triumph. 
Each  of  these  memorable  events  may  be  described  as  a 
rising  up  of  the  human  reason  against  a Caste.  The  one 
was  a struggle  of  the  laity  against  the  clergy  for  intellectual 
liberty;  the  other  was  a struggle  of  the  people  against 
princes  and  nobles  for  political  liberty.  In  both  cases,  the 
spirit  of  innovation  was  at  first  encouraged  by  the  class  to 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


VdS 

which  it  was  likely  to  he  most  j)rejudicial.  It  was  undej 
the  patronage  of  Frederic,  of  Catherine,  of  Josejdi,  and  ol 
the  grandees  of  France,  that  the  philosophy  wliich  after- 
wards threatened  all  the  thrones  and  aristocracies  of  Europe 
with  destruction  first  became  formidable.  The  ardor  witn 
which  men  betook  themselves  to  liberal  studies,  at  the  close 
of  the  fifteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
was  zealously  encouraged  by  the  heads  of  that  very  churcl. 
to  which  liberal  studies  were  destined  to  be  fatal.  In  both 
cases,  when  the  explosion  came,  it  came  with  a violence 
which  appalled  and  disgusted  many  of  those  who  had 
previously  been  distinguished  by  the  freedom  of  their 
opinions.  The  violence  of  the  democratic  party  in  France 
made  Burke  a Tory  and  Alfieri  a courtier.  The  violence  of 
the  chiefs  of  the  German  schism  made  Erasmus  a defender 
of  abuses,  and  turned  the  author  of  Utopia  into  a persecutor. 
In  both  cases,  the  convulsion  which  had  overthrown  deeply 
seated  errors,  shook  all  the  principles  on  which  society  rests 
to  their  very  foundations.  The  minds  of  men  were  un- 
settled. It  seemed  for  a time  that  all  order  and  mora/ity 
vrere  about  to  perish  with  the  prejudices  with  which  they 
had  been  long  and  intimately  associated.  Frightful  cruelties 
were  committed.  Immense  masses  of  property  were  con- 
fiscated. Every  part  of  Euroj^e  swarmed  with  exiles.  In 
moody  and  turbulent  S2)irits  zeal  soured  into  malignity,  or 
foamed  into  madness.  From  the  political  agitation  of  the 
eighteenth  century  sprang  the  Jacobins.  F rom  the  religious 
agitation  of  the  sixteenth  century  sprang  the  Anabaptists. 
The  partisans  of  Robespierre  robbed  and  murdered  in  the 
name  of  fraternity  and  equality.  The  followers  of  Kniper- 
doling  robbed  and  murdered  in  the  name  of  Christian  liberty 
The  feeling  of  patriotism  was,  in  many  parts  of  Europe, 
almost  wholly  extinguished.  All  the  old  maxims  of  foreign 
policy  wxre  changed.  Physical  boundaries  were  superseded 
by  moral  boundaries.  N^ations  made  war  on  each  other  with 
new  arms,  with  arms  which  no  fortifications,  however  strong 
by  nature  or  by  art,  could  resist,  with  arms  before  which 
rivers  parted  like  the  Jordan,  and  ramparts  fell  down  like 
the  walls  of  Jericho.  The  great  masters  of  fleets  and  armies 
were  often  reduced  to  confess,  hke  Milton’s  warlike  angel, 
bow  hard  they  found  it 

“ To  exclude 

Spiritual  substance  with  corporeal  bar. 

Europe  was  divided,  as  G-’ccce  lind  been  divided  duringthe 


& 


BURLEIGH  AND.  IITS  TIMES. 


789 


period  concerning  whicli  Thucydides  wrote.  The  conflict 
was  not,  as  it  is  in  ordinary  times,  between  state  and  state, 
but  between  two  omnipresent  factions,  each  of  which  was 
in  some  places  dominant  and  in  other  places  oppressed,  but 
which,  openly  or  covertly,  carried  on  their  strife  in  the 
bosom  of  every  society.  No  man  asked  whether  another 
belonged  to  the  same  country  with  himself,  but  whether  he 
belonged  to  the  same  sect.  Party-spirit  seemed  to  justify 
and  consecrate  acts  which,  in  any  other  times,  would  have 
been  considered  as  the  foulest  of  treasons.  The  French 
emigrant  saw  nothing  disgraceful  in  bringing  Austrian  and 
Prussian  hussars  to  Paris.  The  Irish  or  Italian  democrat 
saw  no  impropriety  in  serving  the  French  Directory  against 
his  own  native  government.  So,  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
the  fury  of  theological  factions  suspended  all  national  ani- 
mosities and  jealousies.  The  Spaniards  were  invited  into 
France  by  the  League ; the  English  were  invited  into  France 
by  the  Huguenots. 

We  by  no  means  intend  to  underrate  or  to  palliate  the 
crimes  and  excesses  which,  during  the  last  generation,  were 
produced  by  the  spirit  of  democracy.  But,  when  we  hear 
men  zealous  for  the  Protestant  religion,  constantly  represent 
the  French  Revolution  as  radically  and  essentially  evil  on 
account  of  those  crimes  and  excesses,  we  cannot  but  remem- 
ber that  the  deliverance  of  our  ancestors  from  the  house  of 
their  spiritual  bondage  was  effected  “ by  plagues  and  by 
signs,  by  wonders  and  by  war.”  We  cannot  but  remember 
that,  as  in  the  case  of  the  French  Revolution,  so  also  in  the 
case  of  the  Reformation,  those  who  rose  up  against  tyranny 
were  themselves  deeply  tainted  with  the  vices  which  tyranny 
engenders.  We  cannot  but  remember  that  libels  scarcely 
less  scandalous  than  those  of  Hebert,  mummeries  scarcely 
less  absurd  than  those  of  Clootz,  and  crimes  scarcely  less 
atrocious  than  those  of  Marat,  disgrace  the  early  history  of 
Protestantism.  The  Reformation  is  an  event  long  passed. 
That  volcano  has  spent  its  rage.  The  wide  waste  produced 
by  its  outbreak  is  forgotten.  The  landmarks  which  were 
sw(^l)t  away  have  been  replaced.  The  ruined  edifices  have 
been  repaired.  The  lava  has  covered  with  a rich  incrusta- 
tion the  fields  which  it  once  devastated,  and,  after  having 
turned  a beautiful  and  fruitful  garden  into  a desert,  has 
again  turned  the  desert  into  a still  more  beautiful  and  fruit- 
ful garden.  The  second  great  irruption  is  not  yet  over. 
The  marks  of  its  ravages  are  still  ail  around  us.  The  ashes 


740 


Macaulay’s  Mis<;KM,ArsK<>u«  wjuungs. 


are  still  liot  beneatli  our  feet.  In  some  directions  tlie  deluge 
of  fire  still  continues  to  spread.  Yet  ex]>erience  surely  en- 
titles  us  to  believe,  that  this  explosion,  like  tliat  which  pre-  V 
ceded  it,  will  fertilize  the  soil  Avhich  it  has  devastated.  9 
Already,  in  those  ])arts  which  have  suffered  most  severely,  jB 
rich  cultivation  and  secure  dwellings  have  begun  to  aj)pear  M 
amidst  the  waste.  The  more  we  read  of  the  history  of  past 
ages,  the  more  we  observe  the  signs  of  our  own  times,  th?  ’jK; 
more  do  we  feel  our  hearts  filled  and  swelled  u]>  by  a good 
hope  for  the  future  destinies  of  the  human  race. 

The  history  of  the  Reformation  in  England  is  full  of 
strange  problems.  The  most  prominent  and  extraordinary 
(dienomenon  which  it  presents  to  us  is  the  gigantic  strength 
of  the  government  contrasted  with  the  feebleness  of  the 
religious  parties.  During  the  twelve  or  thirteen  years  which  i''''’ 
Followed  the  death  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  the  religion  of  the 
state  was  thrice  changed.  Protestantism  Avas  established  by  • . 
Edward ; the  Catholic  Church  was  restored  by  Mary  ; Prot- 
estantism was  again  established  by  Elizabeth.  The  faith 
of  the  nation  seemed  to  depend  on  the  personal  inclinations 
of  the  sovereign.  Nor  Avas  this  all.  An  established  church  ^ 
was  then,  as  a matter  of  course,  a persecuting  church.  •; 
Edward  persecuted  Catholics.  Mary  persecuted  Protestants. 
Elizabeth  persecuted  Catholics  again.  The  father  of  those 
three  sovereigns  had  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  persecuting 
both  sects  at  once,  and  had  sent  to  death,  on  the  same  hurdle, 
the  heretic  who  denied  the  real  presence,  and  the  traitor 
who  denied  the  royal  supremacy.  There  Avas  nothing  in 
England  like  that  fierce  and  bloody  opposition  AAdiich,  in 
France,  each  of  the  religious  factions  in  its  turn  offered  to 
the  government.  We  had  neither  aColigny  nor  aMayenne, 
neither  a Moncontour  nor  an  Ivry.  No  English  city  braved 
sword  and  famine  for  the  reformed  doctrines  Avith  the  spirit 
of  Rochelle,  or  for  the  Catholic  doctrines  with  the  spirit  of 
Paris.  Neither  sect  in  England  formed  a League.  Neither 
sect  extorted  a recantation  from  the  soA^ereign.  Neither 
rcct  could  obtain  from  an  adA^erse  sovereign  eA^en  a tolera- 
tion. The  English  Protestants,  after  several  years  of  domi- 
nation, sank  down  with  scarcely  a struggle  under  the  tyranny 
of  Mary.  The  Catholics,  after  having  regained  and  abused 
their  old  ascendency,  submitted  ]>atiently  to  the  severe  rule 
of  Elizabeth.  Neither  Protestants  nor  Catholics  engaged  in 
any  great  and  well  organized  scheme  of  resistance.  A feAV 
wild  and  tumultuous  risings,  suppressed  as  soon  as  they 


BURLEIGH  AND  HTS  TIMES. 


741 


appeared,  a few  dark  conspiracies  in  which  only  a small 
number  of  desperate  men  engaged,  such  were  the  utmost 
efforts  made  by  these  two  parties  to  assert  the  most  sacred 
of  human  riglits,  attacked  by  the  most  odious  tyranny. 

The  explanation  of  these  circumstances  which  has  gen- 
erally been  given  is  very  simple,  but  by  no  means  satisfac- 
tory. The  poAver  of  the  crown,  it  is  said,  was  tlien  at  its 
height,  and  was  in  fact  despotic.  This  solution,  Ave  own, 
seems  to  us  to  be  no  solution  at  all.  It  has  long  been  the 
fashion,  a fashion  introduced  by  Mr.  Hume,  to  describe  the 
English  monarchy  in  the  sixteenth  century  as  an  absolute 
monarchy.  And  such  undoubtedly  it  ppears  to  a superfi- 
cial observer.  Elizabeth,  it  is  true  often  spoke  to  her  parlia- 
ments in  language  as  haught  nd  imperious  as  that  Avhich 
the  Great  Turk  would  use  to  his  divan.  She  punished  Avith 
great  severity  members  of  he  Hous  of  Commons  who,  in 
her  opinion,  carried  the  free  om  of  debate  too  far.  She 
assumed  the  power  of  legislating  by  means  of  proclamations. 
She  imprisoned  her  subjects  without  bringing  them  to  a 
legal  trial.  Torture  was  often  employed,  in  defiance  of  the 
laws  of  England,  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  confessions 
from  those  Avho  were  shut  up  in  her  dungeons.  The  author- 
ity of  the  Star-Chamber  and  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Commis- 
sion was  at  its  highest  point.  Severe  restraints  were  imposed 
on  political  and  religious  discussion.  The  number  of  presses 
was  at  one  time  limited.  No  man  could  print  without  a 
license ; and  every  work  had  to  undergo  the  scrutiny  of  the 
Primate,  or  the  Bishop  of  London.  Persons  whose  writings 
Avere  displeasing  to  the  court  were  cruelly  mutilated,  like 
Stubbs,  or  put  to  death,  like  Penry.  Nonconformity  was 
severely  punished.  The  Queen  prescribed  the  exact  rule  of 
religious  faith  and  discipline  ; and  Avhoever  departed  from 
that  rule,  either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  was  in  danger  c f 
seA^ere  penalties. 

Such  Avas  this  government.  Yet  we  know  that  it  was 
loA^ed  by  the  great  body  of  those  who  lived  under  it.  We 
know  that,  during  the  fierce  contests  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, both  the  hostile  parties  spoke  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth 
as  of  a golden  age.  That  great  Queen  has  now  been  lying 
two  hundred  and  thirty  years  in  Henry  the  Seventh’s  chapel. 
Yet  her  memory  is  still  dear  to  the  hearts  of  a free  people. 

The  truth  seems  to  be  that  the  government  of  the 
Tudors  was,  with  a few  occasional  deviations,  a popular 
government,  under  the  forms  of  despotism.  ' At  first  eight, 


749  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

it  may  seem  that  the  prerogatives  of  Elizabeth  were  not 
less  ample  tliaii  those  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  and  her  ]>ar- 
liaments  were  as  obsequious  as  liis  parliaments,  that  her 
warrant  had  as  much  authority  as  his  lettr e-de-cachet.  The 
extravagance  with  which  her  courtiers  eulogized  her  ])erson- 
al  and  mental  charms  went  beyond  the  adulation  of  Boileaii 
and  Moliere.  Lewis  would  have  blushed  to  receive  from 
those  who  composed  the  gorgeous  circles  of  Marli  and  Ver- 
sailles such  outward  marks  of  servitude  as  the  haughty  Brit- 
oiiess  exacted  of  all  who  approached  her.  But  the  authority 
of  Lewis  rested  on  the  support  of  his  army.  The  authority 
of  Elizabeth  rested  solely  on  the  support  of  her  people. 
Those  who  say  that  her  power  was  absolute  do  not  suffi- 
ciently consider  in  what  her  power  consisted.  Her  power 
consisted  in  the  willing  obedience  of  her  subjects,  in  their 
attachment  to  her  person  and  to  her  office,  in  their  respect 
for  the  old  line  from  which  she  sprang,  in  their  sense  of  the 
general  security  which  they  enjoyed  under  her  government. 
These  were  the  means,  and  the  only  means,  which  she  had 
at  her  command  for  carrying  her  decrees  into  execution,  for 
resisting  foreign  enemies,  and  for  crushing  domestic  treason. 
There  was  not  a ward  in  the  city,  there  was  not  a hundred  in 
any  shire  in  England,  which  could  not  have  overpowered  the 
handful  of  armed  men  who  composed  her  household.  If  a 
hostile  sovereign  threatened  invasion,  if  an  ambitious  noble 
raised  the  standard  of  revolt,  she  could  have  recourse  only 
to  the  train-bands  of  her  capital  and  the  array  of  her  coun- 
ties, to  the  citizens  and  yeomen  of  England,  commanded  by 
the  merchants  and  esquires  of  England. 

Thus,  wdien  intelligence  arrived  of  the  vast  preparations 
which  Philip  was  making  for  the  subjugation  of  the  realm, 
the  first  person  to  whom  the  government  thought  of  apply- 
ing for  assistance  was  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London.  They 
sent  to  ask  him  Avhat  force  the  city  would  engage  to  furnish 
Cor  the  defence  of  the  kingdom  against  the  Spaniards.  The 
Mayor  and  Common  Council,  in  return,  desired  to  know 
what  force  the  Queeji’s  Highness  wdshed  them  to  furnish. 
The  answer  Avas,  fifteen  ships  and  five  thousand  men.  The 
Londoners  deliberated  on  the  matter,  and  tw’O  days  after, 
‘Mmmbly  entreated  the  council,  in  sign  of  their  perfect  love 
and  loyalty  to  prince  and  country,  to  accept  ten  thousand 
men  and  thirty  ships  amply  furnished.” 

People  Avho  could  give  such  signs  as  these  of  their  loy- 
alty were  by  no  means  to  be  misgoverned  with  impunity- 


BURLEIGH  AND  HTS  TIMES. 


743 


The  Englisli  in  the  sixteenth  century  were,  beyond  all 
doubt,  a free  people.  They  had  not,  indeed,  the  outward 
show  of  freedom  ; but  they  had  the  reality.  They  had  not 
as  good  a constitution  as  we  have ; but  they  had  that  with- 
out which  the  best  constitution  is  as  useless  as  the  king’s 
proclamation  against  vice  and  immorality,  that  which,  Avith- 
out  any  constitution,  keeps  rulers  in  awe,  force,  and  the 
spirit  to  use  it.  Parliaments,  it  is  true,  were  rarely  held, 
and  were  not  A^ery  respectfully  treated.  The  great  charter 
was  often  violated.  But  the  people  had  a security  against 
gross  and  systematic  misgovernment,  far  stronger  than  all 
the  paichment  that  Avas  ever  marked  Avith  the  sign  manual, 
and  than  all  the  Avax  that  was  ever  pressed  by  the  great 
seal. 

It  is  a common  error  in  politics  to  confound  means  with 
ends.  Constitutions,  charters,  petitions  of  right,  declara- 
tions of  right,  representative  assemblies,  electoral  colleges, 
are  not  good  gOA^ernments  ; nor  do  they,  even  Avhen  most 
elaborately  constructed,  necessarily  produce  good  goA^ern- 
ment.  Laws  exist  in  vain  for  those  Avho  liaA^e  not  the  cour- 
age and  the  means  to  defend  them.  Electors  meet  in  vain 
v/here  want  makes  them  the  slaA^es  of  their  landlord,  or 
Avhere  superstition  makes  them  the  slaA^es  of  the  priest. 
Representative  assemblies  sit  in  A^ain  unless  they  have  at 
their  command,  in  the  last  resort,  the  physical  poAver  which 
is  necessary  to  make  their  deliberations  free,  and  their 
votes  effectual. 

The  Irish  are  better  represented  in  Parliament  than  the 
Scotch,  Avho  indeed  are  not  represented  at  all."^  But  are  the 
Irish  better  governed  than  the  Scotch  ? Surely  not.  This 
circumstance  has  of  late  been  used  as  an  argument  against 
reform.  It  proves  nothing  against  reform.  It  proves  only 
this,  that  laws  have  no  magical,  no  supernatural  virtue; 
tliat  laAvs  do  not  act  like  Aladdin’s  lamp  or  Prince  Ahmed’s 
apple  ; that  priestcraft,  that  ignorance,  that  the  rage  of  con- 
tending factions,  may  make  good  institutions  useless  ; that 
intelligence,  sobriety,  industry,  moral  freedom,  firm  union, 
may  supply  in  a great  measure  the  defects  of  tlie  Avorst  rep- 
resentative system.  A people  Avhose  education  and  habits 
are  such,  that,  in  CA^ery  quarter  of  the  world,  they  rise 
above  the  mass  of  those  Avith  whom  they  mix,  as  surely  as 
oil  rises  to  the  top  of  water,  a people  of  such  temper  and 

* It  must  bo  remembered  that  this  was  written  before  the  passing  of  th* 
jrefo-m  act. 


744 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  weitings. 


Belf-government  tliat  tlie  wildest  popular  excesses  recorded 
in  their  history  j)artake  of  the  gravity  of  judicial  ])roceed- 
ings,  and  of  the  solemnity  of  religious  rites,  a j)eople  whose  S 
national  pride  and  mutual  attachment  have  ])assed  into  a 
proverb,  a people  whoso  high  and  fierce  s])irit,  so  forcibly 
described  in  the  haughty  motto  which  encircles  their  thistle,  S 
preserved  their  independence,  during  a struggle  of  centuries,  ■ 
from  the  encroachments  of  wealthier  and  more  powerf:il  9 
neighbors,  such  a people  cannot  be  long  oppressed.  Any  9- 
government,  however  constituted,  must  respect  their  wishes  9 
and  tremble  at  their  discontents.  It  is  indeed  most  desir-  9 
able  that  such  a ])oople  should  exercise  a direct  influence  on  w 
the  conduct  of  affairs,  and  should  make  their  wishes  known 
through  constitutional  organs.  But  some  influence,  direct  S 
or  indirect,  they  will  assuredly  possess.  Some  organ,  con- 
stitutional  or  unconstitutional,  they  wdll  assuredly  find.  ^ 
They  will  be  better  governed  under  a good  constitution 
than  under  a bad  constitution.  But  they  will  be  better  gov-  ^ 
erned  under  the  worst  constitution  than  some  other  nations 
under  the  best.  In  any  general  classification  of  constitu- 
tions,  the  constitution  of  Scotland  must  be  reckoned  as  one 
of  the  worst,  perhaps  the  worst,  in  Christian  Europe.  Yet  ^ 
the  Scotch  are  not  ill-governed,  and  the  reason  is  simply  - 
that  they  will  not  bear  to  be  ill-governed. 

In  some  of  the  oriental  monarchies,  in  Afghanistan  for 
example,  though  there  exists  nothing  which  an  European 
publicist  would  call  a Constitution,  the  sovereign  generally 
governs  in  conformity  with  certain  rules  established  for  the 
public  benefit ; and  the  sanction  of  those  rules  is,  that 
every  Afghan  approves  them,  and  that  every  Afghan  is  a 
soldier. 

The  monarchy  of  England  in  the  sixteenth  century  w^as 
a monarchy  of  this  kind.  It  is  called  an  absolute  monarchy, 
because  little  respect  was  paid  by  the  Tudors  to  those  insti- 
tutions which  w e have  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  the 
solo  checks  on  the  power  of  the  sovereign.  A modern  Eng- 
lishman can  hardly  understand  how  the  people  can  have  had 
any  real  security  for  good  government  under  kings  who 
levied  benevolences,  and  chid  the  House  of  Commons  as 
they  would  have  chid  a pack  of  dogs.  People  do  not  suf- 
licently  consider  that,  though  the  legal  checks  w^ere  feeble, 
the  natural  checks  were  strong.  There  w^as  one  great  and 
effectual  limitation  on  the  royal  authority,  the  knowledge  . 
that,  if  the  patience  of  the  nation  w’^ere  severely  tried,  the 


BURLEIGU  AMI)  HIS  TIMES. 


745 


nation  would  put  fortli  its  strength,  and  that  its  strength 
would  be  found  irresistible.  If  a large  body  of  English- 
men became  thoroughly  discontented,  instead  of  presenting 
requisitions,  holding  large  meetings,  passing  resolutions, 
signing  petitions,  forming  associations  and  unions,  they  rose 
up ; they  took  their  halberds  and  their  bows ; and,  if  the 
sovereign  was  not  sufficiently  popular  to  find  among  h s 
subjects  other  halberds  and  other  bows  to  oppose  to  tho 
rebels,  nothing  remained  for  him  but  a repetition  of  the  hoi- 
rible  scenes  of  Berkeley  and  Pomfret.  He  had  no  regular 
army  which  could,  by  its  superior  arms  and  its  superior 
skill,  overawe  or  vanquish  the  sturdy  Commons  of  his  realm 
abounding  in  the  native  hardihood  of  Englishmen  and 
trained  in  the  simple  discipline  of  the  militia. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  Tudors  were  as  absolute  as  tho 
Caesars.  Never  was  parallel  so  unfortunate.  The  govern- 
ment of  the  Tudors  was  a direct  opposite  to  the  government 
of  Augustus  and  his  successors.  The  Caesars  ruled  desj)ot- 
ically,  by  means  of  a great  standing  army,  under  the  decent 
forms  of  a republican  constitution.  They  called  themselves 
citizens.  They  mixed  unceremoniously  with  other  citizens. 
In  theory  they  were  only  the  elective  magistrates  of  a free 
commonwealth.  Instead  of  arrogating  to  themselves  des- 
potic power,  they  acknowledged  allegiance  to  the  senate. 
They  were  merely  the  lieutenants  of  that  venerable  body. 
They  mixed  in  debate.  They  even  appeared  as  advocates 
before  the  courts  of  law.  Yet  they  could  safely  indulge  in 
the  wildest  freaks  of  cruelty  and  rapacity,  while  their  le- 
gions remained  faithful.  Our  Tudors,  on  the  other  hand, 
under  the  titles  and  forms  of  monarchical  supremacy,  were 
essentially  popular  magistrates.  They  had  .no  means  of 
protecting  themselves  against  the  public  hatred  ; and  they 
were  therefore  compelled  to  court  the  public  favor.  To 
enjoy  all  the  state  and  all  the  personal  indulgences  of  abso- 
li  te  power,  to  be  adored  with  Oriental  prostrations,  to  dis- 
pose at  will  of  the  liberty  and  even  of  the  life  of  ministers 
and  courtiers,  this  the  nation  granted  to  the  Tudors.  But 
the  condition  on  which  they  were  suffered  to  be  the  tyrants 
of  Whitehall  was  that  they  should  be  the  mild  and  paternal 
i5overeigns  of  England.  They  were  under  the  same  restraints 
with  regard  to  their  people  under  which  a military  despot 
is  placed  with  regard  to  his  army.  They  would  have  found 
it  as  dangerous  to  grind  their  subjects  with  cruel  taxation 
AS  Nero  would  have  found  it  to  leave  his  praetorians  unpaid 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

I’hose  who  immediately  surrounded  the  royal  person,  and 
/ndulged  in  tlie  liazardous  game  of  ambition  were  exposed 
to  tlie  most  fearful  dangers.  Buckingham,  Cromwell,  Sur- 
rey, Seymour  of  Sudeley,  Somerset,  Northumberland,  Suf- 
folk, Norfolk,  Essex,  j)erished  on  the  scaffold.  But  in 
general  the  country  gentleman  liunted  and  the  merchant 
traded  in  peace.  Even  Henry,  as  cruel  as  Domitian,  but  far 
more  politic,  contrived,  while  reeking  with  the  blood  of  the 
Lamia3,  to  be  a favorite  with  the  cobblers. 

The  Tudors  committed  very  tyrannical  acts.  But  in  their 
ordinary  dealings  with  the  peo])le  they  were  not,  and  could 
not  safely  be,  tyrants.  Some  exccesses  were  easily  par- 
doned. For  the  nation  was  proud  of  the  high  and  fiery 
blood  of  its  magnificent  princes,  and  saw,  in  many  proceed- 
ings which  a lawyer  would  even  then  have  condemned,  the 
outbreak  of  the  same  noble  spirit  which  so  manfully  hurled 
foul  scorn  at  Parma  and  at  Spain.  But  to  this  endurance 
there  was  a limit.  If  the  government  ventured  to  adopt 
measures  which  the  people  really  felt  to  be  oppressive,  it 
was  soon  compelled  to  change  its  course.  When  Henry  the 
Eighth  attempted  to  raise  a forced  loan  of  unusual  amount 
by  proceedings  of  unusual  rigor,  the  opposition  wdiich  he  en- 
countered was  such  as  aj^palled  even  his  stubborn  and  im- 
perious spirit.  The  people,  we  are  told,  said  that,  if  they 
were  treated  thus,  ‘‘  then  were  it  worse  than  the  taxes  of 
France ; and  England  should  be  bond,  and  not  free.”  The 
county  cf  Suffolk  rose  in  arms.  The  king  prudently  yielded 
to  an  opposition  which,  if  he  had  persisted,  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  taken  the  form  of  a general  rebellion.  To- 
wards the  close  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  the  people  felt 
themselves  aggrieved  by  the  monopolies.  The  Queen,  proud 
and  courageous  as  she  was,  shrank  from  a contest  with  the 
nation,  and,  with  admirable  sagacity,  conceded  all  that  her 
subjects  had  demanded,  while  it  was  yet  in  her  power  tc 
concede  with  dignity  and  grace. 

It  cannot  be  imagined  that  a people  who  had  in  their 
own  hands  the  means  of  checking  their  princes  would  suffer 
any  prince  to  impose  upon  them  a religion  generally  de- 
tested. It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that,  if  the  nation  had  been 
decidedly  attached  to  the  Protestant  faith,  Mary  could  have 
reestablished  the  Papal  supremacy.  It  is  equally  absurd 
to  suppose  that,  if  the  nation  liad  been  zealous  for  the  an- 
cient religion,  Elizabeth  could  have  restored  the  Protestant 
Church,  The  truth  is,  that  the  people  were  not  disposed  to 


BURLEIGH  AND  HIS  TIMES. 


747 


*rfigage  in  a struggle  cither  for  the  new  or  for  the  old  doc- 
trines. Abundance  of  spirit  was  shown  when  it  seemed 
likely  that  Mary  would  resume  her  father’s  grants  of  church 
])roperty,  or  tliat  she  would  sacrifice  the  interests  of  Eng- 
land to  the  husband  whom  she  regarded  with  unmerited 
tenderness.  That  queen  found  that  it  would  be  madness  to 
attempt  the  restoration  of  the  abbey  lands.  Slie  found 
that  her  subjects  would  never  suffer  her  to  make  her 
hereditary  kingdom  a fief  of  Castile.  On  these  points  she 
encountered  a steady  resistance,  and  was  compelled  to  give 
way.  If  she  was  able  to  establish  the  Catholic  worship  and 
to  persecute  those  who  would  not  conform  to  it,  it  was 
evidently  because  the  people  cared  far  less  for  the  Protestant 
religion  than  for  the  rights  of  property  and  for  the  indepen- 
dence of  the  English  crown.  In  plain  words,  they  did  nc- 
think  the  difference  between  the  hostile  sects  worth  a 
struggle.  There  was  undoubtedly  a zealous  Protestant 
party  and  a zealous  Catholic  party.  But  both  these  parties 
were,  we  believe,  very  small.  We  doubt,  whether  both  to- 
gether made  up,  at  the  time  of  Mary’s  death,  the  twentieth 
part  of  the  nation.  The  remaining  nineteen  twentieths 
halted  between  the  two  opinions,  and  were  not  disposed  to 
risk  a revolution  in  the  government,  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  to  either  of  the  extreme  factions  an  advantage  over 
the  other. 

We  possess  no  data  which  will  enable  us  to  compare 
with  exactness  the  force  of  the  two  sects.  Mr.  Butler  asserts 
that,  even  at  the  accession  of  James  the  First,  a majority  of 
the  population  of  England  were  Catholics.  This  is  pure 
assertion  ; and  is  not  only  unsupported  by  evidence,  but, 
we  think,  completely  disproved  by  the  strongest  evidence. 
Dr.  Lingard  is  of  opinion  that  th  Catholics  were  one  half 
of  the  nati  in  the  middP  of  the  regin  of  Elizabeth. 
Rushton  says  that,  when  Elizabeth  came  to  the  throne,  the 
Catholics  were  two  thirds  of  the  nation,  and  the  Protestants 
only  one  third.  The  most  judicious  and  impartial  of  Eng- 
lish historians,  Mr.  Hallam,  is,  on  the  contrary,  of  opinion, 
that  two  thirds  were  Protestants,  and  only  one  third  Catho- 
lics. To  us,  we  must  confess,  it  seems  incredible  that,  if 
the  Protestants  were  really  two  to  one,  they  should  have 
borne  the  government  of  Mary,  or  that,  if  the  Catholics 
were  really  two  to  one,  they  should  have  borne  the  govern- 
ment of  Elizabeth.  We  are  at  a loss  to  conceive  how  a sov- 
ereign who  has  no  standing  army,  and  whose  power  resta 


748  macjaulay^s  miscellaneous  writings. 

solely  on  the  loyalty  of  his  subjects,  can  continue  foi  years 
to  persecute  a relii^ion  to  which  the  in:i jority  of  liis  subjects 
are  sincerely  attached.  In  fact,  the  Protestants  did  rise  up 
against  one  sister,  and  tlie  Catholics  against  the  other. 
Tliose  risings  clearly  showed  how  small  and  feeble  both  the 
parties  were.  Both  in  the  one  case  and  in  the  other  the 
nation  ranged  itself  on  the  side  of  the  government,  and  the 
insurgents  were  speedily  put  down  and  punished.  The 
Kentish  gentlemen  who  took  up  arms  for  the  reformed 
doctrines  against  Mary,  and  the  great  Northern  Earls  who 
displayed  the  banner  of  the  Five  Wounds  against  Elizabeth, 
were  alike  considered  by  the  great  body  of  their  country- 
men as  wicked  disturbers  of  the  public  peace. 

The  account  which  Cardinal  Bentivoglio  gave  of  the 
state  of  religion  in  England  well  deserves  consideration. 
The  zealous  Catholics  he  reckoned  at  one  thirtieth  part  of 
the  nation.  The  people  who  would  without  the  least  scruple 
become  Catholics,  if  the  Catholic  religion  were  established, 
he  estimated  at  four  fifths  of  the  nation.  We  believe  this 
account  to  have  been  very  near  the  truth.  We  believe  that 
the  people,  whose  minds  were  made  u\y  on  either  side,  who 
were  inclined  to  make  any  sacrifice  or  run  any  risk  for 
either  religion,  were  very  few.  Each  side  had  a fevr  enter- 
prising champions,  and  a few  stout  hearted  martyrs ; but 
the  nation,  undetermined  in  its  opinions  and  feelings,  re- 
signed itself  implicitly  to  the  guidance  of  the  government, 
and  lent  to  the  sovereign  for  the  time  being  an  equally 
ready  aid  against  either  of  the  extreme  parties. 

W e are  very  far  from  saying  that  the  English  of  that 
generation  were  irreligious.  They  held  firmly  those  doc- 
trines which  are  common  to  the  Catholic  and  to  the  Prot- 
estant theology.  But  they  had  no  fixed  opinion  as  to  the 
matters  in  dispute  between  the  churches.  They  were  in  a 
situation  resembling  that  of  those  Borderers  whom  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  described  with  so  much  spirit, 

“ Who  sought  the  beeves  that  made  their  broth, 

In  England  and  in  Scotland  both.*’ 

And  who 

“ Nine  times  outlawed  had  been 
By  England’s  king  and  Scotland’s  queen." 

They  were  sometimes  Protestants,  sometimes  Catholics; 
sometimes  half  Protestants  half  Catholics. 

The  English  had  not,  for  ages,  been  bigoted  Papists. 


BURLEIGH  AND  HIS  TIMES. 


749 


In  the  fourteenth  century,  tlie  first  and  perhaps  the  greatest 
of  the  reformers,  John  Wickliffe,  had  stirred  the  public 
mind  to  its  inmost  depths.  During  the  same  century,  a 
scandalous  schism  in  the  Catholic  Church  liad  diminished, 
in  many  parts  of  Europe,  the  reverence  in  which  the  Roman 
pontiffs  were  held.  It  is  clear  that,  a hundred  years  before 
ihe  time  of  Luther,  a great  party  in  this  kingdom  was  eager 
for  a change  at  least  as  extensive  as  that  which  was  subse- 
quently effected  by  Henry  the  Eighth.  The  House  of  Com- 
mons, in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  j)roposed  a confisca- 
tion of  ecclesiastical  property,  more  sweeping  and  violent 
even  than  that  which  took  place  under  the  administration 
of  Thomas  Cromwell ; and,  though  defeated  in  this  attempt, 
they  succeeded  in  depriving  the  clerical  order  of  some  of  its 
most  oppressive  privileges.  The  splendid  conquests  of 
Henry  the  Fifth  turned  the  attention  of  the  nation  from 
domestic  reform.  The  Council  of  Constance  removed  some 
of  the  grossest  of  those  scandals  wdiich  had  deprived  the 
Church  of  the  public  respect.  The  authority  of  that  vener- 
able synod  propped  up  the  sinking  authority  of  the  Pope- 
dom. A considerable  reaction  took  place.  It  cannot,  how- 
ever, be  doubted,  that  there  was  still  some  concealed 
Lollardism  in  England ; or  that  many  who  did  not  absolutely 
dissent  from  any  doctrine  held  by  the  Church  of  Rome  were 
jealous  of  the  wealth  and  power  enjoyed  by  her  ministers. 
At  the  very  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eiglith,  a 
struggle  took  place  between  the  clergy  and  the  courts  of  law, 
in  which  the  courts  of  law  remained  victorious.  One  of  the 
bishops,  on  that  occasion,  declared  that  the  common  people 
entertained  the  strongest  prejudices  against  his  order,  and 
that  a clergyman  had  no  chance  of  fair  play  before  a lay 
tribunal.  The  London  juries,  he  said,  entertained  such  a 
spite  to  the  Church  that,  if  Abel  were  a priest,  they  would 
find  him  guilty  of  the  murder  of  Cain.  This  was  said  a 
few  months  before  the  time  when  Martin  Luther  began  to 
j Teach  at  Wittenburg  against  indulgences. 

As  the  Reformation  did  not  find  the  English  bigoted 
Papists,  so  neither  was  it  conducted  in  such  a manner  as  to 
make  them  zealous  Protestants.  It  was  not  under  the 
direction  of  men  like  that  fiery  Saxon  who  swore  that  he 
would  go  to  Worms,  though  he  had  to  face  as  many  devils 
as  there  were  tiles  on  the  houses,  or  like  that  brave  Switzer 
who  was  struck  down  while  praying  in  front  of  the  ranks  of 
Zurich,  No  preacher  of  religion  had  the  same  power  here 


750  Macaulay’s  AriscELLANEous  avritikgs. 

wliicli  Calvin  liad  at  Geneva  and  Knox  in  Scotland.  Tho 
government  ])ut  itself  early  at  the  liead  of  the  movement, 
and  t^'us  acquired  power  to  regulate,  and  occasionally  to 
arrest  the  movement. 

To  many  persons  it  appears  extraordinary  that  Henry 
the  Eighth  should  have  been  able  to  maintain  himself  so  long 
in  an  intermediate  position  between  the  Catholic  and  Prot- 
estant parties.  Most  extraordinary  it  would  indeed  be,  if 
we  were  to  suppose  that  the  nation  consisted  of  none  but 
decided  Catholics  and  decided  Protestants.  The  fact  is 
that  the  great  mass  of  the  peojde  was  neither  Catholic  nor 
Protestant,  but  was,  like  its  sovereign,  midway  between  the 
two  sects.  Henry,  in  that  very  part  of  his  conduct  which 
has  been  represented  as  most  capricious  and  inconsistent, 
was  probably  following  a policy  far  more  pleasing  to  the 
majority  of  his  subjects  than  a policy  like  that  of  Edward, 
or  a policy  like  that  of  Mary,  would  have  been.  Down 
even  to  the  very  close  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  the  people 
were  in  a state  somewhat  resembling  that  in  which,  as 
Machiavelli  says,  the  inhabitants  of  the  Roman  empire  were, 
during  the  transition  from  heathenism  to  Christianity; 
“ sendo  la  maggior  parte  di  loro  incerti  a quale  Dio  doves- 
sero  ricorrere.”  They  were  generally,  we  think,  favorable 
to  the  royal  supremacy.  They  disliked  the  policy  of  the 
Court  of  Rome.  Their  spirit  rose  against  the  interference 
of  a foreign  priest  with  their  national  concerns.  The  bull 
which  pronounced  sentence  of  deposition  against  Elizabeth, 
the  plots  which  were  formed  against  her  life,  the  usurpation 
of  lier  titles  by  the  Queen  of  Scotland,  the  hostility  of 
Philip,  excited  their  strongest  indignation.  The  cruelties 
of  Bonner  were  remembered  with  disgust.  Some  parts  ot 
the  new  system,  the  use  of  the  English  language,  for  ex- 
ample, in  public  worship,  and  the  communion  in  both  kinds, 
were  undoubtedly  popular.  On  the  other  hand,  the  early 
lessons  of  the  nurse  and  the  priest  were  not  forgotten.  The 
ancient  ceremonies  were  long  remembered  with  affectionate 
reverence.  A large  portion  of  the  ancient  theology  lingered 
to  the  last  in  the  minds  which  had  been  imbued  with  it  in 
childhood. 

The  best  proof  that  the  religion  of  the  people  was  of 
this  mixed  kind  is  furnished  by  the  Drama  of  that  age.  Ko 
man  would  bring  unpopular  opinions  prominently  forward 
a play  intended  for  representation.  And  we  may  safely 
conclude,  that  feelings  and  opinions  which  pervade  the 


BURLEIGH  AND  HIS  TIMES. 


751 


whole  Dramatic  Literature  of  a generation,  are  feelings  and 
opinions  of  which  the  men  of  that  generation  generally 
partook. 

The  greatest  and  most  popular  dramatists  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age  treat  religious  subjects  in  a very  remarkable 
manner.  They  speak  respectfully  of  the  fundamental  doc- 
trines of  Christianity.  But  they  speak  neither  like  Catholics 
nor  like  Protestants,  but  like  persons  who  are  wavering  l/e- 
Iween  the  tw^o  systems,  or  who  have  made  a system  for 
themselves  out  of  parts  selected  from  both.  They  seem  to 
hold  some  of  the  Romish  rites  and  doctrines  m high  res])ect. 
They  treat  the  vow  of  celibacy,  for  example,  so  tempting, 
and,  in  later  times,  so  common  a subject  for  ribaldry,  with 
mysterious  reverence.  Almost  every  member  of  a religious 
order  whom  they  introduce  is  a holy  and  venerable  man. 
We  remember  in  their  plays  nothing  resembling  the  coarse 
ridicule  with  which  the  Catholic  religion  and  its  ministers 
were  assailed,  two  generations  later,  by  dramatists,  who 
wished  to  please  the  multitude.  We  remember  no  Friar 
Dominic,  no  Father  Foigard,  among  the  characters  drawn 
by  those  great  poets.  The  scene  at  the  close  of  the  Knight 
of  Malta  might  have  been  written  by  a fervent  Catholic. 
Massinger  shows  a great  fondness  for  ecclesiastics  of  the 
Romish  Church,  and  has  even  gone  so  far  as  to  bring  a 
virtuous  and  interesting  Jesuit  on  the  stage.  Ford,  in  that 
fine  play  which  it  is  painful  to  read  and  scarcely  decent  to 
name,  assigns  a highly  creditable  part  to  the  Friar.  The 
partiality  of  Shakspeare  for  Friars  is  well  known.  In 
Hamlet,  the  Ghost  complains  that  he  died  without  extreme 
unction,  and,  in  defiance  of  the  article  which  condemns  the 
doctrine  of  purgatory,  declares  that  he  is 

“ Confined  to  fast  in  fires, 

Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  his  days  of  nature, 

Are  burnt  and  purged  aAvay.’* 

These  lines,  w^e  suspect,  w^ould  have  raised  a tremendous 
i'torm  in  the  theatre  at  any  time  during  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second.  They  were  clearly  not  written  by  a zealous 
Protestant,  or  for  zealous  Protestants.  Yet  the  author  of 
King  John  and  Henry  the  Eighth  w^as  surely  no  friend  to 
papal  supremacy. 

There  is,  w^e  think,  only  one  solution  of  the  phasnomena 
which  w^e  find  in  the  history  and  in  the  drama  of  that  age. 
The  religion  of  the  English  Avas  a mixed  religion,  like  that 
ot  the  Samaritau  settlers,  described  in  the  second  book  of 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Kings,  who  “ feared  the  Lord,  and  served  tlieir  graven 
images  ; ” like  that  of  the  Judaizing  Christians  who  blended 
the  ceremonies  and  doctrines  of  the  synagogue  with  those 
of  the  church  ; like  that  of  the  Mexican  Indians,  who,  during 
many  generations  after  the  subjugation  of  their  race,  con- 
tinued to  unite  with  the  rites  learned  from  their  conquerors 
the  worship  of  the  grotesque  idols  which  had  been  adored 
by  Montezuma  and  Guaternozin. 

These  feelings  were  not  confined  to  the  populace.  Eliza- 
beth herself  was  by  no  means  exempt  from  them.  A cruci- 
fix, with  wax-lights  burning  round  it,  stood  in  her  private 
chapel.  She  always  s])oke  with  disgust  and  anger  of  the 
marriage  of  ])riests.  “ I was  in  horror,”  says  Archbishop 
Parker,  ‘‘  to  hear  such  words  to  come  from  her  mild  nature 
and  Christian  learned  conscience,  as  she  spake  concerning 
God’s  holy  ordinance  and  institution  of  matrimony.”  Bur- 
leigh prevailed  on  her  to  connive  at  the  marriages  of  church- 
men. But  she  would  only  connive  ; and  the  children  sprung 
from  such  marriages  were  illegitimate  till  the  accession  of 
J ames  the  First. 

That  which  is,  as  we  have  said,  the  great  stain  on  the 
character  of  Burleigh  is  also  the  great  stain  on  the  charac- 
ter of  Elizabeth.  Being  herself  an  Adiaphorist,  having  no 
scruple  about  conforming  to  the  Romish  Church  when  con- 
formity wms  necessary  to  her  own  safety,  retaining  to  the 
last  moment  of  her  life  a fondness  for  much  of  the  doctrine 
and  much  of  the  ceremonial  of  that  church,  she  yet  subjected 
that  church  to  a persecution  even  more  odious  than  the  per- 
secution with  which  her  sister  had  harassed  the  Protestants. 
We  say  more  odious.  For  Mary  had  at  least  the  plea  of 
fanaticism.  She  did  nothing  for  her  religion  wdiich  she  was 
not  prepared  to  suffer  for  it.  She  had  held  it  firmly  under 
persecution.  She  fully  believed  it  to  be  essential  to  salva- 
tion. If  she  burned  the  bodies  of  her  subjects,  it  was  in 
order  to  rescue  their  souls.  Elizabeth  had  no  such  pretext. 
In  opinion,  she  was  little  more  than  half  a Protestant.  She 
had  professed,  when  it  suited  her,  to  be  wholly  a Catholic. 
There  is  an  excuse,  a w^retched  excuse,  for  the  massacres  of 
Piedmont  and  the  Autos  de  fe  of  Spain.  But  what  can  be 
said  in  defence  of  a ruler  who  is  at  once  indifferent  and  in- 
tolerant ? 

If  the  great  Queen,  whose  memory  is  still  held  in  just 
veneration  by  Englishmen,  had  possessed  sufi&cient  virtue 
and  suflicient  enlargement  of  mind  to  ado]'>t  those  principles 


BURLEIGH  AND  IllS  TIMES. 


753 


which  More,  wiser  in  speculation  than  in  action,  had  avowed 
in  the  preceding  generation,  and  by  which  the  excellent 
L’Hospital  regulated  his  ccjnduct  in  her  own  time,  how  dif- 
ferent would  be  the  color  of  the  whole  history  of  the  last 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years ! She  had  the  happiest  o})- 
portunity  ever  vouchsafed  to  any  sovereign  of  establish- 
ing perfect  freedom  of  conscience  throughout  her  domin- 
ions, without  danger  to  her  government,  without  scandal  to 
any  large  party  among  her  subjects.  The  nation,  as  it  was 
clearly  ready  to  profess  either  religion,  would,  beyond  all 
doubt,  have  been  ready  to  tolerate  both.  Unhappily  for  her 
own  glory  and  for  the  public  peace,  she  adopted  a policy 
from  the  effects  of  Avhich  the  empire  is  still  suffering.  The 
yoke  of  the  Established  Church  was  j^jressed  down  on  the 
people  till  they  would  bear  it  no  longer.  Then  a reaction 
came.  Another  reaction  followed.  To  the  tyranny  of  the 
establishment  succeeded  the  tumultuous  conflict  of  sects, 
infuriated  by  manifold  wrongs,  and  drunk  with  unwonted 
freedom.  To  tlie  conflict  of  sects  succeeded  again  the  cruel 
domination  of  one  persecuting  church.  At  length  oppression 
put  off  its  most  horrible  form,  and  took  a milder  aspect. 
The  penal  laws  which  had  been  framed  for  the  protection  of 
the  established  church  were  abolished.  But  exclusions  and 
disabilities  still  remained.  These  exclusions  and  disabilities, 
after  having  generated  the  most  fearful  discontents,  after 
having  rendered  all  government  in  one  part  of  the  kingdom 
impossible,  after  having  brought  the  state  to  the  very  brink 
of  ruin,  have,  in  our  times,  been  remoA^ed,  but,  though  re- 
moved, ha\^e  left  behind  them  a rankling  Avhich  may  last 
for  many  years.  It  is  melancholy  to  think  with  what  ease 
Elizabeth  might  haA^e  united  all  conflicting  sects  under  the 
shelter  of  the  same  impartial  bws  and  the  same  paternal 
throne,  and  thus  have  placed  the  nation  in  the  same  situa- 
tion, as  far  as  the  rights  of  conscience  are  concerned,  in  Avhich 
we  at  last  stand,  after  all  the  heart-burnings,  the  persecutions, 
the  conspiracies,  the  seditions,  the  revolutions,  the  judicial 
murders,  the  ci\  il  Avars  of  ten  generations. 

This  is  the  dark  side  of  her  character.  Yet  she  surely 
was  a great  woman.  Of  the  soA^ereigns  who  exercised  a 
])Ower  Avhich  Avas  seemingly  absolute,  but  which  in  fact  de» 
]>ended  for  support  on  the  loAm  and  confidence  of  their  sub- 
jects, she  Avas  by  far  tlie  most  illustrious.  It  has  often  been 
alleged  as  an  excuse  for  tlie  mi.^0A'ernment  of  her  succes- 
sors that  they  only  folioAved  her  example,  that  precedents 
VoL.  I,~48 


/54 


MACAULAY  S MISCP:LLANE0US  WRITINGS. 


might  bo  found  in  the  transactions  of  Iicr  reign  for  perse- 
cuting tlic  Puritans,  for  levying  money  without  the  sanction 
of  tlie  House  of  Commons,  for  confining  men  without  bring- 
ing them  to  trial,  for  interfering  with  the  liberty  of  parlia 
mentary  debate.  All  this  may  be  true.  But  it  is  no  good 
plea  for  her  successors;  and  for  this  plain  reason,  that 
they  were  her  successors.  She  governed  one  generation, 
they  governed  another ; and  between  the  two  generations 
there  was  almost  as  little  in  common  as  between  the  y^eople 
of  two  different  countries.  It  was  not  by  looking  at  the  par 
ticular  measures  which  Elizabeth  had  adopted,  but  by  look- 
ing at  the  great  general  principles  of  her  government,  that 
those  who  followed  her  were  likely  to  learn  the  art  of  man- 
aging untractable  subjects.  If,  instead  of  searching  the 
records  of  her  reign  for  precedents  which  might  seem  to 
vindicate  the  mutilation  of  Pryime  and  the  imprisonment 
of  Eliot,  the  Stuarts  had  attempted  to  discover  the  funda- 
mental rules  which  guided  her  conduct  in  all  her  dealings 
with  her  people,  they  would  have  perceived  that  their  pol- 
icy was  then  most  unlike  to  hers,  when  to  a superficial  ob- 
server it  would  have  seemed  most  to  resemble  hers.  Firm, 
haughty,  sometimes  unjust  and  cruel  in  her  proceedings  tow- 
ards individuals  or  towards  small  parties,  she  avoided  with 
care,  or  retracted  with  speed,  every  measure  which  seamed 
likely  to  alienate  the  great  mass  of  the  people.  She  gained 
more  honor  and  more  love  by  the  manner  in  which  she  re- 
paired her  errors  than  she  would  have  gained  by  never  com- 
mitting errors.  If  such  a man  as  Charles  the  First  had 
been  in  her  place  when  the  whole  nation  was  crying  out 
against  the  monopolies,  he  would  have  refused  all  redress. 
He  would  have  dissolved  the  Parliament,  and  imprisoned  the 
most  popular  members.  He  would  have  called  another 
Parliament.  He  would  have  given  some  vague  and  delu- 
sive promises  of  relief  in  return  for  subsidies.  When 
entreated  to  fulfil  his  promises,  he  would  have  again  dis- 
solved the  Parliament,  and  again  imprisoned  his  leading 
opponents.  The  country  would  have  become  more  agitated 
than  before.  The  next  House  of  Commons  would  have 
been  more  unmanageable  than  that  which  preceded  it.  The 
tyrant  would  have  agreed  to  all  that  the  nation  demanded. 
He  would  have  solemnly  ratified  an  act  abolishing  monopo- 
lies forever.  He  would  have  received  a large  supply  in  re- 
turn for  this  concession  ; and  within  half  a year  new  patents, 
more  oppressive  than  those  which  had  been  cancelled,  would 


BmiLETGn  AND  HIS  THfES. 


755 


have  been  issued  by  seores.  Such  Avas  llic  ]>oliey  wiiicli 
bi’uiiLi^lit  tbe  heir  vd‘  a long  line  of  kings,  in  eai’Iy  youth  llie 
dai’ling  of  liis  countrymen,  to  a ])risoii  and  a scaffold. 

Elizabetli,  before  the  House  of  Commons  could  address 
her,  took  out  of  their  mouths  tlie  words  which  they  were 
about  to  utter  in  the  name  of  the  nation.  Her  promises 
went  beyond  their  desires.  Her  performance  followed  close 
upon  her  promise.  She  did  not  treat  the  nation  as  an  ad* 
verse  ]>arty,  as  a party  which  had  an  interest  opposed  to 
liers,  as  a ]>arty  to  Avhich  she  Avas  to  grant  as  fcAV  advan- 
tages as  ]mssible,  and  from  Avliich  she  Avas  to  extort  as  much 
money  as  ])Ossible.  Her  benefits  AA^ere  given,  not  sold  ; 
and,  Avhen  once  given,  they  Avere  never  a\  ithdraAvn.  She 
gave  them  too  Avith  a frankness,  an  effusion  of  heart,  a 
princely  dignity,  a motherly  tenderness,  AAhich  enhanced 
their  value.  They  were  received  by  tlie  sturdy  country 
gentlemen  v/ho  had  come  up  to  Westminster  full  of  resent- 
ment, Avith  tears  of  joy  and  shouts  of  “ God  save  the  Queen.’' 
Charles  the  First  gave  up  half  the  prerogatives  of  Ids  croAvn 
to  the  Commons ; and  the  Commons  sent  him  in  return  the 
Grand  Remonstrance. 

We  had  intended  to  say  something  concerning  that; 
illustrious  group  of  which  Elizabeth  is  the  central  figure, 
that  group  Avhich  the  last  of  the  bards  saAV  in  Ausion  from 
the  top  of  SnoAvdon  encircling  the  Virgin  Queen, 

“ a baron  bold, 

And  gorgeous  dames  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty.” 

We’had  intended  to  say  something  concerning  the  dex- 
terous Walsingham,  the  impetuous  Oxford,  tlie  graceful 
Sackville,  the  all-accomplished  Sydney ; concerning  Essex, 
tbe  ornament  of  the  court  and  of  the  camp,  the  model  of 
chivalry,  the  munificent  patron  of  genius,  Avhom  great  Aur- 
tues,  great  courage,  great  talents,  the  favor  of  his  soA^ereign^ 
the  love  of  liis  countrymen,  all  that  seemed  to  ensure  a 
hapi^y  and  glorious  life,  led  to  an  early  and  ignominious 
deati. ; concerning  Raleigh,  the  soldier,  the  sailor,  the  scliolar, 
the  cjurtier,  the  orator,  the  poet,  the  historian,  the  philoso- 
pher, Avhom  Ave  picture  to  ourselves,  sometimes  reviewing 
the  Queen’s  guard,  sometimes  giving  chase  to  a Spanish 
galleon,  then  answering  the  chiefs  of  the  country  party  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  then  again  murmuring  one  of  his 
sweet  loA^e-songs  too  near  the  ears  of  her  Highness’s  maids 
of  honor,  and  soon  after  pouring  over  the  Talmud,  or  cob 


756  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLAKEOUB  WKlTlXGS. 

lating  Polybius  with  Livy.  We  liad  intended  also  co  u 
something  concerning  tlie  literature  of  that  s])lendid  ])criod, 
and  especially  concerning  those  two  incomparable  men,  the 
Prince  of  Poets,  and  the  Prince  of  Philosophers,  who  have 
made  the  Elizabethan  age  a more  glorious  and  important 
era  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind  than  the  age  of  Per- 
icles, of  Augustus,  or  of  Leo.  But  subjects  so  vast  require 
a space  far  larger  than  we  can  at  present  afford.  W e there- 
fore stop  here,  fearing  that,  if  we  proceed,  our  article  may 
swell  to  a bulk  exceeding  that  of  all  other  reviews,  as  much 
as  Dr,  Nares’s  book  exceeds  the  bulk  of  all  other  histories. 


MIRABEAU* 

{Edinburgh  Review ^ July,  1832.) 

This  is  a very  amusing  and  a very  instructive  book ; but, 
even  if  it  were  less  amusing  and  less  instructive,  it  would 
still  be  interesting  as  a relic  of  a wise  and  virtuous  man. 
M.  Dumont  was  one  of  those  persons,  the  care  of  whose 
fame  belongs  in  an  especial  manner  to  mankind.  For  he 
was  one  of  those  j^ersons  who  have,  for  the  sake  of  man- 
kind, neglected  the  care  of  their  own  fame.  In  his  walk 
through  life  there  w^as  no  obtrusiveness,  no  pushing,  no 
elbowing,  none  of  the  little  arts  which  bring  forward  little 
men.  With  every  right  to  the  head  of  the  board,  he  took 
the  lowest  room,  and  well  deserved  to  be  greeted  with — ■ 
Friend,  go  up  higher.  Though  no  man  was  more  capable 
of  achieving  for  himself  a separate  and  independent  renown, 
he  attached  himself  to  others;  he  labored  to  raise  their 
fame  ; he  was  content  to  receive  as  his  share  of  the  reward 
the  mere  overflowings  which  redounded  from  the  full  meas« 
lire  of  their  glory.  Not  that  he  Avas  of  a servile  and  idola^ 
trous  habit  of  mind : — not  that  he  Avas  one  of  the  tribe  ct 
Boswells, — those  literary  Gibeonites,  born  to  be  hewers  of 
Avood  and  drawers  of  Avater  to  the  higher  intellectual  castes. 
Possessed  of  talents  and  acquirements  which  made  him 
great,  he  wished  only  to  be  useful.  In  the  prime  of  man- 

♦ Souvenirs  sur  Mirabeau,  et  sur  les  deux  Premieres  Assemblies  Ligislatives* 
Far  Etienne  Dumont,  de  Gonhv'€X  ouvrage  postliuiue  public  par  M.  J.  L, 
Duval,  Membre  du  Conseil  iteprcbCiitutii  duGautoudu  Goa^ve,  8vo,  J^aris;  1833 


MTRABEAlT* 


757 


hood,  at  the  very  time  of  life  at  which  ambitions  men  arc 
most  amliitioiis,  he  was  not  solicitous  to  proclaim  that  lie 
furnished  information,  arguments,  and  eloquence  to  Mira- 
beau.  In  his  later  years  lie  was  perfectly  willing  that  his 
renown  should  merge  in  that  of  Mr.  Bentham. 

The  services  which  M.  Dumont  has  rendered  to  society 
can  be  fully  appreciated  only  by  those  who  have  studied 
Mr.  Bentham ’s  works,  both  in  their  rude  and  in  their  finished 
state.  The  difference  both  for  show  and  for  use  is  as  great 
as  the  difference  between  a lump  of  golden  ore  and  a rou- 
! ‘au  of  sovereigns  fresh  from  the  mint.  Of  Mr.  Bentham 
we  would  at  all  times  speak  with  the  reverence  which  is  due 
to  a great  original  tliinker,  and  to  a sincere  and  ardent 
friend  of  the  human  race.  If  a few  weaknesses  were  min- 
gled with  his  eminent  virtues, — if  a few  errors  insinuated 
themselves  among  the  many  valuable  truths  which  he 
taught, — this  is  assuredly  no  time  for  noticing  those  weak- 
nesses or  those  errors  in  an  unkind  or  sarcastic  spirit.  A 
great  man  has  gone  from  among  us,  full  of  years,  of  good 
works,  and  of  deserved  honors.  In  some  of  the  highest 
departments  in  which  the  human  intellect  can  exert  itself 
he  has  not  left  his  equal  or  liis  second  behind  him.  From 
his  contemporaries  he  has  had,  according  to  the  usual  lot, 
more  or  less  than  j ustice.  He  has  had  blind  flatterers  and 
blind  detractors — flatterers  who  could  see  nothing  but  per- 
fection in  liis  style,  detractors  who  could  see  nothing  but 
nonsense  in  his  matter.  He  will  now  have  judges.  Poster- 
ity will  pronounce  its  calm  and  impartial  decision  ; and 
that  decision  will,  we  firmly  believe,  place  in  the  same  rank 
with  Galileo,  and  with  Locke,  the  man  who  found  juris- 
prudence a gibberish  and  left  it  a science.  Never  was  there 
a literary  partnership  so  fortunate  as  tliat  of  Mr.  Bentham 
and  M.  Dumont.  The  raw  material  which  Mr.  Bentham 
furnished  was  most  precious ; but  it  was  unmarketable.  He 
was,  assuredly,  at  once  a great  logician  and  a great  rhetor- 
ician. But  the  effect  of  his  logic  was  injured  by  a vicious 
arrangement,  and  the  effect  of  his  rhetoric  by  a vicious 
style.  His  mind  was  vigorous,  comprehensive,  subtle,  fer- 
tile of  aiguments,  fertile  of  illustrations.  But  he  spoke  ip 
an  unknown  tongue ; and,  that  the  congregation  might  be 
edified,  it  was  necessary  that  some  brother  having  the  gift 
of  interpretation  should  expound  the  invaluable  jargon. 
His  oracles  were  of  high  import ; but  they  were  traced  on 
leaves  and  flung  loose  to  the  wind.  So  negligent  waa 


758 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


lio  of  the  arts  of  selection,  distribution  and  compression, 
that  to  j)ersons  wlio  formed  tlu'ir  judgment  of  liim  fj*om  his 
works  in  tlieir  undigested  state,  lie  seemed  to  be  the  least 
systematic  of  all  ])hilosopliers.  The  truth  is,  that  his 
opinions  formed  a system,  which,  whether  sound  or  unsound, 
is  more  exact,  more  entire,  and  more  consistent  with  itself 
than  any  other.  Yet  to  superficial  readers  of  his  works  in 
their  original  form,  and  indeed  to  all  readers  of  those 
works  who  did  not  bring  great  industry  and  great  acuteness 
to  the  study,  he  seemed  to  be  a man  of  a quick  and  inge- 
nious but  ill-regulated  mind, — who  saw  truth  only  by 
glimpses,  — who  threw  out  many  striking  hints,  but  who 
had  never  thought  of  combining  his  doctrines  in  one  har- 
monious whole. 

M.  Dumont  was  admirably  qualified  to  supply  what  was 
wanting  in  Mr.  Bentham.  In  the  qualities  in  which  the 
French  writers  surpass  those  of  all  other  nations, — neat- 
ness, cleanliness,  precision,  condensation, — he  surpassed  all 
French  writers.  If  M.  Dumont  had  never  been  born,  Mr. 
Bentham  would  still  have  been  a very  great  man.  But  he 
would  have  been  great  to  himself  alone.  The  fertility  of  his 
mind  would  have  resembled  the  fertility  of  those  vast 
American  wildernesses  in  which  blossoms  and  decays  a rich 
but  unprofitable  vegetation,  “ wherewith  the  reaper  filleth 
not  his  hand,  neither  he  that  bindeth  up  the  sheaves  his 
bosom.”  It  would  have  been  with  his  discoveries  as  it  has 
been  with  the  Century  of  Inventions.”  His  speculations 
on  laws  would  have  been  of  no  more  practical  use  than 
Lord  Worcester’s  speculations  on  steam-engines.  Some 
generations  hence,  perhaps,  when  legislation  had  found  its 
Watt,  an  antiquarian  might  have  published  to  the  world  the 
curious  fact,  that,  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Third,  there 
had  been  a man  called  Bentham,  who  had  given  hints  of 
many  discoveries  made  since  his  time,  and  who  had  really, 
for  his  age,  taken  a most  philosophical  view  of  the  priuci- 
j)les  of  jurisprudence. 

Many  persons  have  attempted  to  interpret  between  this 
])Owerful  mind  and  the  public.  But,  in  our  opinion,  M. 
Dumont  alone  has  succeeded.  It  is  remarkable  that,  in 
foreign  countries,  where  Mr.  Bentham’s  works  are  known 
solely  through  tlie  medium  of  the  French  version,  his  merit 
is  almost  universally  acknowledged.  Even  those  who  are 
■lost  decidedly  opposed  to  his  political  opinions — ^the  very 
nefs  )i  the  Holy  Alliance — have  publicly  testified  their  re* 


MTRABEA.TT. 


759 


spect  for  him.  In  England,  on  the  contrary,  many  persona 
who  certainly  entertained  no  prejudice  against  him  on 
political  grounds  were  long  in  the  habit  of  mentioning  him 
contemptuously.  Indeed,  what  was  said  of  Bacon’s  Phi 
losophy  may  be  said  of  Bentham’s.  It  was  in  little  repute 
among  us,  till  judgments  in  its  favor  came  from  beyond  sea, 
and  convinced  us,  to  our  shame,  that  we  had  been  abusing 
and  laughing  at  one  of  the  greatest  men  of  the  age. 

M.  Dumont  might  easily  have  found  employments  more 
gratifying  to  personal  vanity  than  that  of  arranging  works 
not  his  own.  But  he  could  have  found  no  employment 
more  useful  or  more  truly  honorable.  The  book  before  us, 
hastily  written  as  it  is,  contains  abundant  proof,  if  proof 
were  needed,  that  he  did  not  become  an  editor  because  he 
\vanted  the  talents  which  would  have  made  him  eminent  as 
a writer. 

Persons  who  hold  democratical  opinions,  and  who  have 
been  accustomed  to  consider  M.  Dumont  as  one  of  their 
party,  have  been  surprised  and  mortified  to  learn  that  he 
speaks  with  very  little  respect  of  the  French  Revolution 
and  its  authors.  Some  zealous  Tories  have  naturally  ex- 
pressed great  satisfaction  at  finding  their  doctrines,  in  some 
respects,  confirmed  by  the  testimony  of  an  unwilling  wit- 
ness. The  date  of  the  work,  we  think,  explains  every  thing. 
If  it  had  been  written  ten  years  earlier,  or  twenty  years 
later,  it  would  have  been  very  different  from  what  it  is.  It 
was  written,  neither  during  the  first  excitement  of  the  Re- 
volution, nor  at  that  later  period  when  the  practical  good 
produced  by  the  Revolution  had  become  manifest  to  the 
most  prejudiced  observers ; but  in  those  wretched  times 
when  the  enthusiasm  had  abated,  and  the  solid  advantages 
were  not  yet  fully  seen.  It  was  written  in  the  year  1799, — 
a year  in  which  the  most  sanguine  friend  of  liberty  might 
well  feel  some  misgivings  as  to  the  effects  of  what  the  Na- 
tional Assembly  had  done.  The  evils  which  attend  every 
grsat  change  had  been  severely  felt.  The  benefit  was  still 
to  come.  The  price — a heavy  price — had  been  paid.  The 
thing  purchased  had  not  yet  been  delivered.  Europe  was 
swarming  with  French  exiles.  The  fleets  and  armies  of 
the  second  coalition  were  victorious.  Within  France,  the 
reign  of  terror  was  over  ; but  the  reign  of  law  had  not 
commenced.  There  had  been,  indeed,  during  three  or  foui 
years,  a written  Constitution,  by  which  rights  were  defined 
ttnd  checki  provided.  But  these  rights  had  been  repeatedly 


760 


macaulay’b  miscellaneous  writings. 


violatecl ; and  lliosc  cliocks  liad  ])rovcd  utterly  im  flicient. 
The  laws  which  had  been  framed  tc  secure  the  distinct  au- 
thority of  the  executive  magistrates  and  of  the  legislative 
assemblies — the  freedom  of  election — the  freedom  of  de- 
bate— the  freedom  of  the  press — the  personal  freedom  of 
citizens — Avere  a dead  letter.  The  ordinary  mode  in  which 
the  Republic  was  governed  Avas  by  coups  eVHat,  On  one  oc,- 
casion,  the  legislati\’e  councils  were  placed  under  military 
restraint  by  the  directors.  Then,  again,  directors  Avere  de- 

{)osed  by  the  legislative  councils.  Elections  Averc  set  aside 
>y  the  executive  authority.  Shiploads  of  writers  and  speak- 
ers Avere  sent,  Avithout  a legal  trial,  to  die  of  fever  in  Gui- 
anna.  France,  in  short,  was  in  that  state  in  Avhich  revolu- 
tions, effected  by  violence,  almost  always  leave  a nation. 
The  habit  of  obedience  had  been  lost.  The  spell  of  pre- 
scription had  been  broken.  Those  associations  on  Avhich,  far 
more  than  on  any  arguments  about  property  and  order,  the 
authority  of  magistrates  rests,  had  completely  passed  away. 
The  power  of  the  gOA^ernment  consisted  merely  in  the  phys- 
ical force  which  it  could  bring  to  its  support.  Moral  force 
it  had  none.  It  was  itself  a gOA^ernment  sprung  from  a 
recent  convulsion.  Its  OAvn  fundamental  maxim  Avas,  that 
rebellion  might  be  justifiable.  Its  OAvn  existence  proA^ed 
that  rebellion  might  be  successful.  The  people  had  been 
accustomed,  during  several  years,  to  offer  resistance  to  the 
constituted  authorities  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  to 
see  the  constituted  authorities  yield  to  that  resistance.  The 
whole  political  Avorld  was  “ without  form  and  void  ” — an  in- 
cessant whirl  of  hostile  atoms,  Avdiich,  every  moment,  formed 
some  new  combination.  The  only  man  Avho  could  fix  the 
agitated  elements  of  society  in  a stable  form  AAuas  following 
a wild  vision  of  glory  and  empire  through  the  Syrian  des- 
erts. The  time  Avas  not  yet  come,  Avhen 

“ Confusion  heard  his  voice  ; and  wild  uproar 
Stood  ruled : 

when,  out  of  the  chaos  into  which  the  old  society  had  been 
resolved,  were  to  rise  a neAV  dynasty,  a neAv  j)eerage,  a new 
church,  and  a ncAV  code. 

The  dying  Avords  of  Madame  Roland,  ‘‘  Oh  Liberty  ! how 
many  crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name  ! ” Avere  at  that 
time  echoed  by  many  of  the  most  upright  and  benevolent  of 
mankind.  M.  Guizot  has,  in  one  of  liis  admirable  pamphlets, 
J’Appilyand  justly  described  M.  Laine  as  “an  honest  and 


MTRAl^EATT. 


761 


liberal  man  discouraged  by  the  Revolution.”  This  descrip- 
tion, at  the  time  when  M.  Dumont’s  Memoirs  were  written, 
would  have  applied  to  almost  every  honest  and  liberal  man 
in  Europe  ; and  would,  beyond  all  doubt,  have  applied  to 
M.  Dumont  himself.  To  that  fanatical  worship  of  the  all- 
wise and  all-good  people,  which  had  been  common  a few 
years  before,  had  succeeded  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  the 
follies  and  vices  of  the  people  would  frustrate  all  attempts  to 
serve  them.  The  wild  and  joyous  exultation  with  which  the 
meeting  of  the  States-General  and  the  fall  of  the  Bastile 
had  been  hailed,  had  passed  away.  In  its  place  was  dejec- 
tion, and  a gloomy  distrust  of  specious  appearances.  The 
philosophers  and  philanthropists  had  reigned.  And  what 
had  their  reign  produced  ? Philosophy  had  brought  with  it 
mummeries  as  absurd  as  any  which  had  been  practised  by 
the  most  superstitious  zealot  of  the  darkest  age.  Philan- 
thropy had  brought  with  it  crimes  as  horrible  as  the  massacre 
of  St.  Bartholomew.  This  was  the  emancipation  of  the  hu- 
man mind.  These  were  the  fruits  of  the  great  victory  of 
reason  over  prejudice.  France  had  rejected  the  faith  of 
Pascal  and  Descartes  as  a nursery  fable,  that  a courtesan 
might  be  her  idol,  and  a madman  her  priest.  She  had  as- 
serted her  freedom  against  Louis,  that  she  might  bow  down 
before  Robespierre.  For  a time  men  thought  that  all  the 
boasted  wisdom  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  folly  ; and 
that  those  hopes  of  great  political  and  social  ameliorations 
wliich  had  been  cherished  by  Voltaire  and  Condorcet  were 
utterly  delusive. 

Under  the  influence  of  these  feelings,  M.  Dumont  has 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  writings  of  Mr.  Burke  on  the 
French  Revolution,  though  disfigured  by  exaggeration,  and 
though  containing  doctrines  subversive  of  all  public  liberty, 
had  been,  on  the  whole,  justified  by  events,  and  had  prob- 
ably saved  Europe  from  great  disasters.  That  such  a man 
as  the  friend  and  fellow-laborer  of  Mr.  Bentham  should 
have  expressed  such  an  opinion  is  a circumstance  which  well 
deserves  the  consideration  of  uncharitable  politicians.  These 
Memoirs  have  not  convinced  us  that  the  French  Revolution 
was  not  a great  blessing  to  mankind.  But  they  have  convinced 
us  that  very  great  indulgence  is  due  to  those  who,  while  the 
Revolution  was  actually  taking  place,  regarded  it  with  un- 
mixed aversion  and  horror.  We  can  perceive  where  their 
error  lay.  We  can  perceive  that  the  evil  was  temporary, 
and  the  good  durable.  But  we  cannot  be  sure  that,  if  our 


762  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

lot  liad  been  cast  in  tlieir  times,  we  slioiild  not,  like  them, 
have  been  discouraged  and  disgusted — that  we  sliould  not, 
like  them,  have  seen,  in  tliat  great  victory  of  the  French 
people,  only  insanity  and  crime. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  how  some  men  are  applauded, 
and  others  reviled,  for  merely  being  wliat  all  their  neigh- 
bors are, — for  merely  going  passively  down  the  stream  of 
events, — for  merely  representing  the  opinions  and  passions 
of  a whole  generation.  The  friends  of  popular  government 
oidinarily  speak  with  extreme  severity  of  Mr.  Pitt,  and  with 
res])ect  and  tenderness  of  Mr.  Canning.  Yet  the  whole  dif- 
fen  nee,  we  suspect,  consisted  merely  in  this, — that  Mr.  Pitt 
died  in  1806,  and  Mr  Canning  in  1827.  During  the  years 
which  were  common  to  the  public  life  of  both,  Mr.  Canning 
was  assuredly  not  a more  liberal  statesman  than  his  patron. 
The  truth  is,  that  Mr.  Pitt  began  his  political  life  at  the  end 
of  the  American  War,  when  the  nation  was  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  corruption.  He  closed  it  in  the  midst  of  the 
calamities  produced  by  the  French  Revolution,  when  the 
nation  was  still  strongly  impressed  with  the  horrors  of  an- 
archy. He  changed,  undoubtedly.  In  his  youth  he  had 
brought  in  reform  bills.  In  his  manhood  he  brought  in 
gagging  bills.  But  the  change,  though  lamentable,  was^  in  our 
opinion,  perfectly  natural,  and  might  have  been  perfectly 
honest.  He  changed  with  the  gi’eat  body  of  his  countrymen. 
Mr.  Canning,  on  the  other  hand,  entered  into  public  life 
when  Europe  was  in  dread  of  the  Jacobins.  He  closed  his 
public  life  when  Europe  was  suffering  under  the  t}^ranny  of 
the  Holy  Alliance.  He,  too,  changed  with  the  nation.  As 
the  crimes  of  the  Jacobins  had  turned  the  masters  into 
something  very  like  a Tory,  the  events  which  followed  the 
Congress  of  Vienna  turned  the  pupil  into  something  very 
like  a Whig. 

So  much  are  men  the  creatures  of  circumstances.  We 
see  that,  if  M.  Dumont  had  died  in  1799,  he  would  have  died, 
to  use  the  new  cant  word,  a decided  “ Conservative.”  If 
Mr.  Pitt  had  lived  in  1832,  it  is  our  firm  belief  that  he  would 
have  been  a decided  Reformer. 

The  judgment  passed  by  M.  Dumont  in  this  work  on 
the  French  Revolution  must  be  taken  with  considerable 
allowances.  It  resembles  a criticism  on  a play  of  which  only 
the  first  act  has  been  performed,  or  on  a building  from  which 
the  scaffolding  has  not  yet  been  taken  down.  We  have  no 
doubt  that,  if  the  excellent  author  had  revised  these  memoirs 


MIRABEAtT. 


763 


thirty  years  after  the  time  at  which  they  were  written,  ho 
would  have  seen  reason  to  omit  a few  passages,  and  to  add 
many  qualifications  and  explanations. 

He  would  not  probably  have  been  inclined  to  retract 
the  censures,  just,  though  severe,  which  he  has  passed  on 
the  ignorance,  the  presumption,  and  the  pedantry,  of  the 
National  Assembly.  But  he  would  have  admitted  that,  in 
spite  of  those  faults,  perhaps  even  by  reason  of  those  faults, 
that  Assembly  had  conferred  inestimable  benefits  on  mankind. 
It  is  clear  that,  among  the  French  of  that  day,  political 
knowledge  was  absolutely  in  its  infancy.  It  would  indeed 
liave  been  strange  if  it  had  attained  maturity  in  the  time  of 
censors,  of  lettres-de-cachet^  and  of  beds  of  justice.  The 
electors  did  not  know  how  to  elect.  The  representatives  did 
not  know  how  to  deliberate.  M.  Dumont  taught  the  constitu- 
ent body  of  Montreuil  how  to  perform  their  functions,  and 
found  them  apt  to  learn.  He  afterwards  tried,  in  concert 
with  Mirabeau,  to  instruct  the  National  Assembly  in  that 
admirable  system  of  Parliamentary  tactics  which  has  been 
long  established  in  the  English  House  of  Commons,  and 
which  has  made  the  House  of  Commons,  in  spite  of  all  the 
defects  in  its  composition,  the  best  and  fairest  debating 
society  in  the  world.  But  these  accomplished  legislators, 
though  quite  as  ignorant  as  the  mob  of  Montreuil,  proved 
much  less  docile,  and  cried  out  that  they  did  not  want  to  go 
to  school  to  the  English.  Their  debates  consisted  of  endless 
successions  of  trashy  pamphlets,  all  beginning  with  some- 
thing about  the  original  compact  of  society,  man  in  the  hunt- 
ing state,  and  other  such  foolery.  They  sometimes  diver- 
sified and  enlivened  these  long  readings  by  a little  rioting. 
They  bawled  ; they  hooted  ; they  shook  their  fists.  They 
kept  no  order  among  themselves.  They  were  insulted  with 
impunity  by  the  crowd  which  filled  their  galleries.  They 
gave  long  and  solemn  considerations  to  trifies.  They  hur- 
ried through  the  most  important  resolutions  with  fearful  ex- 
pedition. They  wasted  months  in  quibbling  about  the  words 
of  that  false  and  childish  Declaration  of  Rights  on  \vhich 
they  professed  to  found  their  new  constitution,  and  which 
was  at  irreconcilable  variance  with  every  clause  of  that  con 
stitution.  They  annihilated  in  a single  night  privileges, 
many  of  which  partook  of  the  nature  of  property,  and  ought 
therefore  to  have  been  most  delicately  handled. 

They  are  called  the  Constituent  Assembly.  Never  was 
fi  name  less  appropriate.  They  were  not  constituent,  but 


7G4 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


the  very  reverse  of  constituent.  Tliey  constituted  nothing 
that  stood  or  tliat  deserved  to  last.  They  had  not,  and  they 
could  not  ])0ssibly  liave,  the  information  or  the  habits  of 
mind  which  are  necessary  for  the  framing  of  that  most  ex- 
quisite of  all  machines — a government.  The  metaphysical 
cant  with  which  they  jirefaced  their  constitution,  has  long 
been  the  scoff  of  all  parties.  Their  constitution  itself, — 
that  constitution  which  they  described  as  absolutely  perfect, 
and  to  whicli  they  predicted  immortality, — disappeared  in 
a few  months,  and  left  no  trace  behind  it.  They  were  great 
only  in  the  work  of  destruction. 

The  glory  of  the  National  Assembly  is  this,  that  they 
were  in  truth,  what  Mr.  Burke  called  them  in  austere  irony, 
the  ablest  architects  of  ruin  that  ever  the  world  saw.  They 
were  utterly  incompetent  to  perform  any  work  which  re- 
quired a discriminating  eye  and  a skilful  hand.  But  the 
work  which  was  then  to  be  done  was  a Avork  of  devastation. 
They  had  to  deal  with  abuses  so  horrible  and  so  deeply 
rooted  that  the  highest  political  wisdom  could  scarcely  have 
produced  greater  good  to  mankind  than  was  produced  by 
their  fierce  and  senseless  temerity.  Demolition  is  undoubt- 
edly a vulgar  task ; the  highest  glory  of  the  statesman  is 
to  construct.  But  there  is  a time  for  everything, — a time 
to  set  up,  and  a time  to  pull  down.  The  talents  of  revolu- 
tionary leaders  and  those  of  the  legislator  have  equally  their 
use  and  their  season.  It  is  the  natural,  the  almost  universal, 
law,  that  the  age  of  insurrections  and  proscriptions  shall 
precede  the  age  of  good  government,  of  temperate  liberty, 
and  liberal  order. 

And  how  should  it  be  otherwise  ? It  is  not  in  swad- 
dling-bands that  we  learn  to  walk.  It  is  not  in  the  dark  that 
we  learn  to  distinguish  colors.  It  is  not  under  oppression 
that  we  learn  how  to  use  freedom.  The  ordinary  sophism 
by  which  misrule  is  defended  is,  when  truly  stated,  this  . — 
The  people  must  continue  in  slavery,  because  slavery  has 
generated  in  them  all  the  vices  of  slaves.  Because  they  are 
ignorant,  they  must  remain  under  a power  which  has  made 
and  which  keeps  them  ignorant.  Because  they  have  been 
made  ferocious  by  misgovernment,  they  must  be  misgov- 
erned forever.  If  the  system  under  which  they  live  were 
so  mild  and  liberal  that  under  its  operation  they  liad  become 
limnane  and  enlightened,  it  would  be  safe  to  venture  on  a 
change.  But,  as  this  system  has  destroyed  morality,  and 
prevented  the  development  of  the  intellect?, — -as  it  has 


MTUAREATJ. 


765 


turned  men,  who  might  under  different  training  have  formed 
a virtuous  and  hap]>y  community,  into  savage  and  stupid 
wild  beasts, — therefore  it  ought  to  last  forever.  The  Eng- 
lish Revolution,  it  is  said,  was  truly  a glorious  Revolution. 
Practical  evils  were  redressed  ; no  excesses  were  committed  ; 
no  sweeping  confiscations  took  place  ; the  authority  of  the 
laws  was  scarcely  for  a moment  suspended ; the  fullest  and 
freest  discussion  was  tolerated  in  Parliament ; the  nation 
showed,  by  th^  calm  and  temperate  manner  in  which  it 
asserted  its  liberty,  that  it  was  fit  to  enjoy  liberty.  The 
French  Revolution  vras,  on  the  other  hand,  the  most  h orrb 
ble  event  recorded  in  history, — all  madness  and  wickedness, 
— absurdity  in  theory,  and  atrocity  in  practice.  What  folly 
and  injustice  in  the  revolutionary  laws!  What  grotesque 
affectation  in  the  revolutionary  ceremonies  ! What  fanati- 
cism ! What  licentiousness ! What  cruelty  ! Anacharsis 
Clootz  and  Marat, — feasts  of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  mar- 
riages of  the  Loire — trees  of  liberty,  and  heads  dancing  on 
pikes — the  whole  forms  a kind  of  infernal  farce,  made  up  of 
everything  ridiculous,  and  everything  frightful.  This  it  is  to 
give  freedom  to  those  who  have  neither  wisdom  nor  virtue. 

It  is  not  only  by  bad  men  interested  in  the  defence  of 
abuses  that  arguments  like  these  have  been  urged  against  all 
schemes  of  political  improvement.  Some  of  the  highest 
and  purest  of  human  beings  conceived  such  scorn  and  aver- 
sion for  the  follies  and  crimes  of  the  French  Revolution 
that  they  recanted,  in  the  moment  of  triumjdi,  those  liberal 
opinions  to  which  they  had  clung  in  defiance  of  persecution. 
And,  if  Ave  inquire  why  it  Avas  that  they  began  to  doubt 
Avhether  liberty  w^ere  a blessing,  we  shall  find  that  it  was 
only  because  events  had  proA^ed,  in  the  clearest  manner,  that 
liberty  is  the  parent  of  Aurtue  and  of  order.  They  ceased 
to  abhor  tyranny  merely  because  it  had  been  signally  shoAvn 
that  the  effect  of  tyranny  on  the  hearts  and  understandings 
of  men  is  more  demoralizing  and  more  stupefying  than  had 
ever  been  imagined  by  the  most  zealous  friend  of  moral 
rights.  The  truth  is,  that  a stronger  argument  against  the 
old  monarchy  of  France  may  be  drawn  from  the  noyades 
and  the  fusillades  than  from  the  Bastile  and  the  Parc-aux- 
cerfs.  We  belie\"e  it  to  be  a rule  without  an  exception,  that 
the  Auolence  of  a rcA'^olution  corresponds  to  the  degree  of 
misgOA^exnment  AAdiich  has  produced  that  revolution.  Why 
Avas  the  French  Revolution  so  bloody  and  destructh^e  ? Wh  j 
was  our  revolution  of  1641  comparatively  mild?  Why  was 


766  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLAOTIOUS  WRITINGS. 

pur  revolution  of  1688  milder  still  ? Wliy  was  the  Ameri- 
can Revolution,  considered  as  an  internal  movement,  the 
mildest  of  all?  There  is  an  obvious  and  complete  solution 
of  the  problem.  The  English  under  James  the  First  and 
Charles  the  First  were  less  oppressed  than  the  French  under 
Louis  the  Fifteenth  and  Louis  tlie  Sixteenth.  The  English 
were  less  oppressed  after  the  Restoration  than  before  the 
great  Rebellion.  And  America  under  George  the  Third  was 
less  oppressed  than  England  under  the  Stuarts.  The 
reaction  was  exactly  proportioned  to  the  pressure, — the 
vengeance  to  the  provocation. 

When  Mr.  Burke  was  reminded  in  his  later  years  of  the 
zeal  which  he  had  displayed  in  the  cause  of  the  AmericaiM?, 
he  vindicated  himself  from  the  charge  of  inconsistency,  by 
contrasting  the  wisdom  and  moderation  of  the  Colonial  in- 
surgents of  1776  with  the  fanaticism  and  wickedness  of  the 
Jacobins  of  1792.  He  was  in  fact  bringing  an  argument  a 
fortiori  against  himself.  The  circumstances  on  wdiich  he 
rested  his  vindication  fully  proved  that  the  old  government 
of  France  stood  in  far  more  need  of  a complete  change  than 
the  old  government  of  America.  The  difference  between 
Washington  and  Robespierre, — the  difference  between  Frank- 
lin and  Barcre, — the  difference  between  the  destruction  of 
a few  barrels  of  tea  and  the  confiscation  of  thousands  of 
square  miles, — the  difference  between  the  tarring  and  feather- 
ing of  a tax-gatherer  and  the  massacres  of  September, — meas- 
ure the  difference  between  the  government  of  America  under 
the  rule  of  England  and  the  government  of  France  under 
the  rule  of  the  Bourbons. 

Louis  the  Sixteenth  made  great  voluntary  concessions  to 
his  people;  and  they  sent  him  to  the  scaffold.  Charles  the 
Tenth  violated  the  fundamental  laws  of  the  State,  estab- 
lished a despotism,  and  butchered  his  subjects  for  not  sub- 
mitting quietly  to  that  despotism.  He  failed  in  his  wicked 
attempt.  He  was  at  the  mercy  of  those  whom  he  had  injured. 
The  pavements  of  Paris  were  still  heaped  up  m barricades ; 
— ^the  hospitals  were  still  full  of  the  wounded ; — the  dead  were 
still  unburied ; — a thousand  families  were  in  mourning  ; — a 
hundred  thousand  citizens  were  in  arms.  The  crime  was 
recent ; — the  life  of  the  criminal  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
sufferers  ; — and  they  touched  not  one  hair  of  his  head.  In 
the  first  revolution,  victims  were  sent  to  death  by  scores  for 
the  most  trifling  acts  j^roved  by  the  lowest  testimony,  before 
ihe  most  partial  tribunals.  After  the  second  revolution, 


MmABEAtr. 


76T 


those  ministers  wlio  liad  signed  the  ordinances, — those  min 
isters,  whose  guilt,  as  it  was  of  the  foulest  kind,  was  proved 
by  the  clearest  evidence, — were  punished  only  with  imprison- 
ment. In  the  first  revolution,  property  was  attacked.  In 
the  second,  it  was  held  sacred.  Both  revolutions,  it  is  true, 
left  the  public  mind  of  France  in  an  unsettled  state.  Both 
revolutions  were  followed  by  insurrectionary  movements. 
But,  after  the  first  revolution,  the  insurgents  were  almost  al- 
ways stronger  than  the  law  ; and,  since  the  second  revolu- 
tion, the  lav,  has  invariably  been  found  stronger  than  the 
insurgents.  There  is,  indeed,  much  in  the  present  state  of 
France  which  may  well  excite  the  uneasiness  of  those  who 
desire  to  see  her  free,  happy,  powerful,  and  secure.  Yet,  if 
we  compare  the  present  state  of  France  with  the  state  in 
which  she  was  forty  years  ago,  how  vast  a change  for  the  bet- 
ter has  taken  place  ! How  little  effect,  for  example,  during 
the  first  revolution,  would  the  sentence  of  a judicial  body 
have  produced  on  an  armed  and  victorious  body ! If,  after 
the  10th  of  August,  or  after  the  proscription  of  the  Gironde,  or 
after  the  9th  of  Thermidor,  or  after  the  carnage  of  Vendem- 
iaire,  or  after  the  arrests  of  Fructidor,  any  tribunal  had  de- 
cided against  the  conquerors  in  favor  of  the  conquered,  with 
what  contempt,  with  wdiat  derision,  would  its  award  have 
been  received  ! The  judges  would  have  lost  their  heads,  or 
would  have  been  sent  to  die  in  some  unwholesome  colony. 
The  fate  of  the  victim  whom  they  had  endeavored  to  save 
would  only  have  been  made  darker  and  more  hopeless  by 
their  interference.  We  have  lately  seen  a signal  proof 
that,  in  France,  the  law  is  now  stronger  than  the  sword. 
We  have  seen  a government,  in  tlic  very  moment  of  triumph 
and  revenge,  submitting  itself  to  the  authority  of  a court  of 
law.  A just  and  independent  sentence  has  been  pronounced 
— a sentence  worthy  of  the  ancient  renown  of  that  magistracy 
to  which  belong  the  noblest  recollections  of  French  history 
— which,  in  an  age  of  persecutors,  produced  L’Hopital — 
which,  in  an  age  of  courtiers,  produced  D’Aguesseau — which, 
in  an  age  of  wickedness  and  madness,  exhibited  to  mankind 
a pattern  of  every  virtue  in  the  life  and  in  the  death  J)f 
Malesherbes.  The  respectful  manner  in  which  that  sentence 
has  been  received  is  alone  sufficient  to  show  how  widely  the 
French  of  this  generation  differ  from  their  fathers.  And 
how  is  the  difference  to  be  explained  ? The  race,  the  soil, 
the  climate  are  the  same.  If  those  dull,  honest  Englishmen, 
who  explain  the  events  of  17941  and  1794  by  saying  that  the 


768  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

French  are  naturally  frivolous  and  cruel,  were  in  tne  riglit, 
why  is  the  guillotine  now  standing  idle?  Not  surely  for 
want  of  Carlists,  of  aristocrats,  of  ))eople  guilty  of  incivisin, 
of  people  suspected  of  being  susj)icious  characters.  Is  not 
the  true  explanation  this,  that  the  Frenchman  of  1832  has 
been  far  better  governed  than  the  Frenchman  of  1798, — 
that  his  soul  has  never  been  galled  by  the  o])pressive  privi- 
leges of  a separate  caste, — that  he  has  been  in  some  degree  ac- 
customed to  discuss  political  questions,  and  to  peiform 
political  functions, — that  he  has  lived  for  seventeen  or  eigh- 
teen years  under  institutions  which,  however  defective,  have 
yet  been  far  superior  to  any  institutions  that  had  before 
existed  in  France? 

As  the  second  French  Revolution  has  been  far  milder 
than  the  first,  so  that  great  change  which  has  just  been  ef- 
fected in  England  has  been  milder  even  than  the  second 
French  Revolution, — milder  than  any  revolution  recorded  in 
history.  Some  orators  have  described  the  reform  of  the 
House  of  Commons  as  a revolution.  Others  have  denied 
the  propriety  of  the  term.  The  question,  though  in  seeming 
merely  a question  of  definition,  suggests  much  curious  and 
interesting  matter  for  reflection.  If  we  look  at  the  magni- 
tude of  the  reform,  it  may  well  be  called  a revolution.  If  we 
look  at  the  means  by  which  it  has  been  effected,  it  is  merely 
an  act  of  Parliament,  regularly  brought  in,  read,  committed, 
and  passed.  In  the  whole  history  of  England,  there  is  no 
prouder  circumstance  than  this, — that  a change,  which  could 
not,  in  any  other  age,  or  in  any  other  country,  have  been 
effected  without  physical  violence,  should  here  have  been 
effected  by  the  force  of  reason,  and  under  the  forms  of  law. 
The  work  of  three  civil  wars  has  been  accomplished  by  three 
sessions  of  Parliament.  An  ancient  and  deeply  rooted  sys- 
tem of  abuses  has  been  fiercely  attacked  and  stubbornly  de- 
fended. It  has  fallen  ; and  not  one  sword  has  been  drawn  ; 
not  one  estate  has  been  confiscated  ; not  one  family  has  been 
forced  to  emigrate.  The  bank  has  kept  its  credit.  The 
funds  have  kept  their  price.  Every  man  has  gone  forth 
to  his  work  and  to  his  labor  till  the  evening.  During  the 
fiercest  excitement  of  the  contest, — during  the  first  fort- 
night of  that  immortal  May, — there  was  not  one  moment  at 
which  any  sanguinary  act  committed  on  the  person  of  an) 
of  the  most  unpopular  men  in  England  would  not  have  filled 
the  country  with  horror  and  indignation. 

And,  now  that  the  victory  is  won,  has  it  been  abused  ? 


MlRABEAtT. 


7G9 


An  immense  mass  of  power  has  been  transferred  from  an 
oligarchy  to  the  nation.  Are  the  members  of  the  vanquished 
oligarchy  insecure  ? Does  the  nation  seem  disposed  to  play 
the  tyrant  ? Are  not  those  who,  in  any  other  state  of  society, 
would  have  been  visited  with  the  severest  vengeance  of  the 
triumphant  party, — would  liave  been  pining  in  dungeons, 
or  flying  to  foreign  countries, — still  enjoying  their  posses- 
sions and  their  honors,  still  taking  part  as  freely  as  ever  in 
public  affairs?  Two  years  ago  they  were  dominant.  They 
are  now  vanquished.  Yet  the  whole  people  would  regard 
with  horror  any  man  who  should  dare  to  propose  any  vin- 
dictive measure.  So  common  is  this  feeling — so  much  is  it 
a matter  of  course  among  us, — that  many  of  our  readers 
will  scarcely  understand  what  we  see  to  admire  in  it. 

To  what  are  we  to  attribute  the  unparalleled  moderation 
and  humanity  which  the  English  peojDle  have  displayed  at 
this  great  conjuncture  ? The  answer  is  plain.  This  modera- 
tion, this  humanity,  are  the  fruits  of  a hundred  and  fifty 
years  of  liberty.  During  many  generations  we  have  had 
legislative  assemblies  which,  however  defective  their  con- 
stitution might  be,  have  always  contained  many  members 
chosen  by  the  people,  and  many  others  eager  to  obtain  the 
approbation  of  the  people; — assemblies  in  which  perfect 
freedom  of  debate  was  allowed ; — assemblies  in  which  the 
smallest  minority  had  a fair  hearing ; — assemblies  in  which 
abuses,  even  when  they  were  not  redressed,  were  at  least 
exposed.  For  many  generations  we  have  had  the  trial  by 
jury,  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act,  the  freedom  of  the  press,  the 
right  of  meeting  to  discuss  public  affairs,  the  right  of  peti- 
tioning the  legislature.  A vast  portion  of  the  population 
has  long  been  accustomed  to  the  exercise  of  political  func- 
tions, and  has  been  thoroughly  seasoned  to  political  excite- 
ment. In  most  other  countries  there  is  no  middle  course 
between  absolute  submission  and  open  rebellion.  In  Eng- 
land there  has  always  been  for  centuries  a constitutional 
opposition.  Thus  our  institutions  had  been  so  good  that 
they  had  educated  us  into  a capacity  for  better  institutions. 
There  is  not  a large  - town  in  the  kingdom  which  does  not 
contain  better  materials  for  a legislature  than  all  France 
could  furnish  in  1789.  There  is  not  a spouting-club  at  any 
pot-house  in  London  in  which  the  rules  of  debate  are  not 
better  understood,  and  more  strictly  observed  than  in  the 
Constituent  Assembly.  There  is  scarcely  a Political  Union 
which  could  not  frame  in  half  an  hour  a declaration  of  rights 
VoL.  I.— 49 


770  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

superior  to  lliat  which  occnj)ie(l  the  collective  wisdom  of 
France  for  several  months. 

It  would  l>e  impossible  even  to  glance  at  all  the  causes 
of  the  French  Revolution,  within  the  limits  to  which  we 
must  confine  ourselves.  One  thing  is  clear.  The  govern- 
ment, the  aristocracy,  and  the  church,  were  rewarded  after 
their  works.  They  reaped  that  which  they  had  sown. 
They  found  the  nation  such  as  they  had  made  it.  That  the 
people  had  become  possessed  of  irresistible  power  before 
they  had  attained  the  slightest  knowledge  of  the  art  of  gov- 
ernment— that  practical  questions  of  vast  moment  were  left 
to  be  solved  by  men  to  whom  politics  had  been  only  a 
matter  of  theory — that  a legislature  was  composed  of  per- 
sons  who  were  scarcely  fit  to  compose  a debating  society — • 
that  the  whole  nation  was  ready  to  lend  an  ear  to  any 
flatterer  who  appealed  to  its  cupidity,  to  its  fears,  or  to  its 
thii*st  for  vengeance — all  this  was  the  effect  of  misrule, 
obstinately  continued  in  defiance  of  solemn  warnings,  and 
of  the  visible  signs  of  an  approaching  retribution. 

Even  when  the  monarchy  seemed  to  be  in  its  highest  and 
most  palmy  state,  the  causes  of  that  great  destruction  had 
already  begun  to  operate.  They  may  be  distinctly  traced 
even  under  the  reign  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  That  reign 
is  the  time  to  which  the  Ultra-Royalists  refer  as  the  Golden 
Age  of  France.  It  was  in  truth  one  of  those  periods  which 
shine  with  an  unnatural  and  delusive  splendor,  and  which 
are  rapidly  followed  by  gloom  and  decay. 

Concerning  Louis  the  Fourteenth  himself,  the  world 
seems  at  last  to  have  formed  a correct  judgment.  He  was 
not  a great  general ; he  was  not  a great  statesman  ; but  he 
Avas,  in  one  sense  of  the  words,  a great  king.  Never  was 
there  so  consummate  a master  of  what  our  James  the  First 
would  have  called  king-craft, — of  all  those  arts  which  most 
advantageously  display  the  merits  of  a prince,  and  most 
completely  hide  his  defects.  Though  his  internal  admin- 
istration Avas  bad, — though  the  military  triumphs  which 
gaA^e  s})lendor  to  the  early  part  of  his  reign  were  not 
a^:hieA’'ed  by  himself, — though  his  later  years  Avere  crowded 
with  defeats  and  humiliations, — though  he  was  so  ignorant 
that  he  scarcely  understood  the  Latin  of  his  mass-book, — 
though  he  fell  under  the  control  of  a cunning  old  Jesuit, 
and  of  a more  cunning  old  woman,— he  succeeded  in  pass- 
ing himself  off  on  his  people  as  a being  above  humanity. 
And  this  is  the  more  extraordinary,  because  he  did  not  seclude 


MTRABEAU. 


771 


himself  from  the  public  gaze  like  those  Oriental  despots 
whose  faces  are  never  seen,  and  wh  >se  very  names  it  is  a 
crime  to  pronounce  lightly.  It  has  been  said  that  no  man 
is  a hero  to  his  valet ; — and  all  the  world  saw  as  much  of 
Louis  the  Fourteenth  as  his  valet  could  see.  Five  hundred 
people  assembled  to  see  him  shave  and  put  on  his  breeches 
in  the  morning.  He  then  kneeled  down  at  the  side  of  his 
bed,  and  said  his  prayer,  while  the  whole  assembly  awaited 
the  end  in  solemn  silence, — the  ecclesiastics  on  their  knees, 
and  the  laymen  with  their  hats  before  their  faces.  lie 
walked  about  his  gardens  with  a train  of  two  hundred  cour- 
tiers at  his  heels.  All  Versailles  came  to  see  him  dine  and 
sup.  He  was  put  to  bed  at  night  in  the  midst  of  a crowd 
as  great  as  that  which  had  met  to  see  him  rise  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  took  liis  very  emetics  in  state,  and  vomited 
majestically  in  the  presence  of  all  the  grandes  and  petites 
entrees.  Yet,  though  he  constantly  exposed  himself  to  the 
public  gaze  in  situations  in  which  it  is  scarcely  possible  for 
.any  man  to  preserve  much  personal  dignity,  he  to  the  last 
impressed  those  who  surrounded  him  with  the  deepest  awe 
and  reverence.  The  illusion  Avhich  he  produced  on  his  wor- 
shippers can  be  compared  only  to  those  illusions  to  which 
lovers  are  proverbially  subject  during  the  season  of  courtship. 
It  was  an  illusion  which  affected  even  the  senses.  The 
contemporaries  of  Louis  thought  him  tall.  Voltaire,  who 
might  have  seen  him,  and  who  had  lived  with  some  of  the 
most  distinguished  members  of  his  court,  speaks  repeatedly 
of  Lis  maj#estic  stature.  Yet  it  is  as  certain  as  any  fact  can 
be,  that  he  was  rather  below  than  above  the  middle  size. 
He  had,  it  seems,  a way  of  holding  himself,  a way  of  walk- 
ing, a way  of  swelling  his  chest  and  rearing  his  head,  which 
deceived  the  eyes  of  the  multitude.  Eighty  years  after  his 
death  the  royal  cemetery  was  violated  by  the  revolutionists  ; 
his  coffin  was  opened ; his  body  was  dragged  out ; and  it  ap- 
peared that  the  prince, whose  majestic  figure  had  been  so  long 
and  loudly  extolled,  was  in  truth  a little  man.*  That  fine 
expression  of  Juvenal  is  singularly  applicable,  both  in  its  lit- 
eral and  in  its  metaphorical  sense,  to  Louis  the  Fourteenth 

“ Mors  sola  fatetur 
Quantula  sint  hominum  corpuscula.** 


* Even  M.  de  Chateaubriand,  to  whom  we  should  have  thought  all  the  Bour- 
bons would  have  seemed  at  least  six  feet  high,  admits  this  fact.  “ C^est  une 

srreur,”  says  he  in  his  strange  memoirs  of  the  Puke  of  Berri,  “ de  croire  que 
Louis  XIV.  6toit  d’une  haute  stature.  Une  cuirasse  qui  nous  reste  de  liii,  et 
les  exhuiaatiQBB  de  St  Penys,  u’out  laiss^  sur  ce  point  aucun  doute**’ 


772  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

His  person  and  his  government  liave  liad  the  same  fate. 
He  had  the  art^of  making  both  appear  grand  and  august,  in 
spite  of  the  clearest  evidence  that  both  were  below  the  or- 
dinary standard.  Death  and  time  have  exposed  both  the 
deceptions.  The  body  of  the  great  king  has  been  measured 
more  justly  than  it  was  measured  by  the  courtiers  who  were 
afraid  to  look  above  his  shoe-tie.  His  public  character  lias 
been  scrutinized  by  men  free  from  the  hopes  and  fears  of 
Boileau  and  Moli^re.  In  the  grave,  the  most  majestic  of 
j)r:nces  is  only  five  feet  eight.  In  history,  the  hero  and  the 
politician  dwindles  into  a vain  and  feeble  tyrant, — the  slave 
of  priests  and  women, — little  in  war, — little  in  government, 
— little  in  everything  but  the  art  of  simulating  greatness. 

He  left  to  his  infant  successor  a famished  and  miserable 
people,  a. beaten  and  humbled  army,  provinces  turned  into 
deserts  by  misgovernment  and  persecution,  factions  dividing 
the  court,  a schism  raging  in  the  church,  an  immense  debt, 
an  empty  treasury,  immeasurable  palaces,  an  innumerable 
household,  inestimable  jewels  and  furniture.  All  the  sap, 
and  nutriment  of  the  State  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  to 
feed  one  bloated  and  unwholesome  excrescence.  The  nation 
was  withered.  The  court  was  morbidly  flourishing.  Yet  it 
does  not  apj^ear  that  the  associations  which  attached  the 
people  to  the  monarchy  had  lost  strength  during  his  reign. 
He  had  neglected  or  sacrificed  their  dearest  interests  ; but 
he  had  struck  their  imaginations.  The  very  things  which 
ought  to  have  made  him  most  unpopular, — the  prodigies  of 
luxury  and  magnificence  with  which  his  person  was  sur- 
rounded, while,  beyond  the  inclosure  of  his  parks,  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  but  starvation  and  despair, — seemed  to  in- 
crease the  respectful  attachment  which  his  subjects  felt  for 
him.  That  governments  exist  only  for  the  good  of  the 
people,  appears  to  be  the  most  obvious  and  simple  of  all 
truths.  Yet  history  proves  that  it  is  one  of  the  most  recon- 
dite. We  can  scarcely  wonder  that  it  should  be  so  seldom 
present  to  the  minds  of  rulers,  when  we  see  how  slowly,  and 
through  how  much  suffering,  nations  arrive  at  the  knowledge 
of  it. 

There  was  indeed  one  Frenchman  who  had  discovered 
those  principles  which  it  now  seems  impossible  to  miss, — 
that  the  many  are  not  made  for  the  use  of  one,— that  the 
truly  good  government  is  not  that  w^hich  concentrates  mag- 
nificence in  a court,  but  that  which  diffuses  happiness  among 
a people, — that  a king  who  gains  victory  after  victory^  and 


MTRABEAU. 


773 


adds  province  to  province,  may  deserve,  not  the  admiration, 
but  tlie  abhorrence  and  contempt  of  mankind.  These  were 
the  doctrines  which  Fenelon  taught.  Considered  as  an  epic 
poem,  Telemachus  can  scarcely  be  placed  above  Glover’s 
Leonidas  or  Wilkie’s  Epigoniad.  Considered  as  a treatise 
on  politics  and  morals,  it  abounds  with  errors  of  detail ; and 
the  truths  which  it  inculcates  seem  trite  to  a modern  reader. 
But,  if  we  compare  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  written  with  the 
spirit  which  pervades  the  rest  of  the  French  literature  of 
that  age,  we  shall  perceive  that,  though  in  apj^earance  trite, 
It  was  in  truth  one  of  the  most  original  works  that  have 
ever  appeared.  The  fundamental  principles  of  Fenelon’s 
political  morality,  the  tests  by  which  he  judged  of  institu- 
tions and  of  men,  were  absolutely  new  to  his  countrymen. 
He  had  taught  them  indeed,  with  the  happiest  effect,  to  his 
royal  pupil.  But  how  incomprehensible  they  were  to  most 
people,  we  learn  from  Saint  Simon.  That  amusing  wudter 
tells  us,  as  a thing  almost  incredible,  that  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy declared  it  to  be  his  opinion  that  kings  existed  for 
the  good  of  the  people,  and  not  the  people  for  the  good  of 
kings.  Saint  Simon  is  delighted  with  the  benevolence  of 
this  saying ; but  startled  by  its  novelty,  and  terrified  by  its 
boldness.  Indeed  he  distinctly  says  that  it  was  not  safe  to 
repeat  the  sentiment  in  the  court  of  Louis.  Saint  Simon 
was,  of  all  the  members  of  that  court,  the  least  courtly.  He 
was  as  nearly  an  oppositionist  as  any  man  of  his  time.  His 
disposition  was  proud,  bitter,  and  cynical.  In  religion  he 
was  a Jansenist ; in  politics,  a less  hearty  royalist  than  most 
of  his  neighbors.  His  opinions  and  his  temper  had  pre- 
served him  from  the  illusions  which  the  demeanor  of  Louis 
produced  on  others.  He  neither  loved  nor  respected  the 
king.  Yet  even  this  man, — one  of  the  most  liberal  men  in 
France, — was  struck  dumb  with  astonishment  at  hearing  the 
fundamental  axiom  of  all  government  propounded,  — an 
axiom  which,  in  our  time,  nobody  in  England  or  France 
W3uld  dispute, — which  the  stoutest  Tory  takes  for  granted 
as  much  as  the  fiercest  Radical,  and  concerning  which  the 
Carlist  would  agree  with  the  most  republican  deputy  of  the 
“extreme  left.”  'No  person  will  do  justice  to  Fenelon,  who 
does  not  constantly  keep  in  mind  that  Telemachus  was 
written  in  an  age  and  nation  in  which  bold  and  independent 
thinkers  stared  to  hear  that  twenty  millions  of  Imman  beings 
did  not  exist  for  the  gratification  of  one.  That  work  is 
commonly  considered  as  a school-book,  very  fit  for  children, 


774  Macaulay’s  mtsckllaneoub  writings. 

because  its  style  is  easy  and  its  morality  blameless,  but  un- 
worthy  of  the  attention  of  statesmen  and  philosoj)hers. 
We  can  distinguish  in  it,  if  we  are  not  greatly  mistaken,  the 
first  faint  dawn  of  a long  and  splendid  day  of  intellectual 
light, — the  dim  ])roniise  of  a great  deliverance, — the  un- 
developed germ  of  the  charter  and  of  the  code. 

What  mighty  interests  were  staked  on  the  life  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy  ! and  how  different  an  aspect  might  tl  e 
history  of  France  have  borne  if  he  had  attained  the  age  of 
his  grandfather  or  of  his  son  ; — if  he  had  been  permitted  tc 
show  how  much  could  be  done  for  humanity  by  the  highest 
virtue  in  the  highest  fortune  ! There  is  scarcely  anything 
in  history  more  remarkable  than  the  descriptions  which  re- 
main to  us  of  that  extraordinary  man.  The  fierce  and  im- 
petuous temper  which  he  showed  in  early  youth, — the  com- 
plete change  which  a judicious  education  produced  in  his 
character, — his  fervid  piety, — his  large  benevolence, — the 
strictness  with  which  he  judged  himself, — the  liberality  with 
which  he  judged  others, — the  fortitude  with  which  alone,  in 
the  whole  court,  he  stood  uj)  against  the  commands  of  Louis, 
when  a religious  scruple  was  concerned, — the  charity  with 
which  alone,  in  the  whole  court,  he  defended  the  profligate 
Orleans  against  calumniators, — his  great  projects  for  the 
good  of  the  people, — his  activity  in  business, — his  taste  for 
letters, — his  strong  domestic  attachments, — even  the  un- 
graceful person  and  the  shy  and  awkward  manner  which 
concealed  from  the  eyes  of  the  sneering  courtiers  of  his 
grandfather  so  many  rare  endowments, — make  his  character 
the  most  interesting  that  is  to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  his 
house.  He  had  resolved,  if  he  came  to  the  throne,  to  dis- 
perse that  ostentatious  court,  which  was  supported  at  an 
expense  ruinous  to  the  nation, — to  preserve  peace, — to  cor- 
rect the  abuses  which  were  found  in  every  part  of  the 
system  of  revenue, — to  abolish  or  modify  oppressive  privi- 
leges,— to  reform  the  administration  of  justice, — to  revive 
the  institution  of  the  States  General.  If  he  had  ruled  ovei 
France  during  forty  or  fifty  years,  that  great  movement  of 
the  human  mind,  which  no  government  could  have  arrested, 
which  bad  government  only  rendered  more  violent,  would, 
we  are  inclined  to  think,  have  been  conducted,  by  peaceable 
means,  to  a happy  termination. 

Disease  and  sorrow  removed  from  the  world  that  wis- 
dom and  virtue  of  which  it  was  not  worthy.  During  two 
generations  it  was  ruled  by  men  w^ho,  with  all  the  vices  of 


MIR\BEATT. 


775 


Louis  the  Fourteenth,  had  none  of  the  art  by  which  that 
magnificent  ]>rince  passed  off  his  vices  for  virtues.  The 
people  had  now  to  see  tyranny  naked.  That  foul  Duessa 
was  stripped  of  her  gorgeous  ornaments.  She  had  always 
been  hideous ; but  a strange  enchantment  ha  3 made  her 
seem  fair  and  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  her  willing  slaves. 
The  spell  was  now  broken ; the  deformity  was  made  mani- 
fest ; and  the  lovers,  lately  so  happy  and  so  proud,  turned 
away  loathing  and  horror-struck. 

First  came  the  Regency.  The  strictness  with  which 
Lo  ais  had,  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  exacted  from  those 
ai  -)und  him  an  outward  attention  to  religious  duties,  pro- 
duced an  effect  similar  to  that  which  the  rigor  of  the  Puri- 
tans had  produced  in  England.  It  was  the  boast  of  Madame 
de  Main  tenon,  in  the  time  of  her  greatness,  that  devotion 
had  become  the  fashion.  A fashion  indeed  it  was ; and, 
like  a fashion,  it  passed  away.  The  austerity  of  the  tyrant’s 
old  age  had  injured  the  morality  of  the  higher  orders  more 
than  even  the  licentiousness  of  his  youth.  Not  only  had  he 
not  reformed  their  vices,  but,  by  forcing  them  to  be  hypo- 
crites, he  had  shaken  their  belief  in  virtue.  They  had  found 
it  so  easy  to  perform  the  grimace  of  piety,  that  it  was  nat- 
ural for  them  to  consider  all  piety  as  grimace.  The  times 
were  changed.  Pensions,  regiments,  and  abbeys,  were  no 
longer  to  be  obtained  by  regular  confession  and  severe  pen- 
ance ; and  the  obsequious  courtiers,  who  had  kept  Lent  like 
monks  of  La  Trappe,  and  who  had  turned  up  the  whites  of 
their  eyes  at  the  edifying  parts  of  sermons  preacAed  before 
the  king,  aspired  to  the  title  of  roue  as  ardently  as  they  had 
aspired  to  that  of  devot ; and  went,  during  Passion  Week, 
to  the  revels  of  the  Palais  Royal  as  readily  as  they  had  for- 
1 lerly  repaired  to  the  sermons  of  Massillon. 

The  Regent  was  in  many  respects  the  fac-simile  of  our 
Charles  the  Second.  Like  Charles  he  was  a good-natured 
man,  utterly  destitute  of  sensibility.  Like  Charles  he  had 
gcod  natural  talents,  which  a deplorable  indolence  rendered 
useless  to  the  State.  Like  Charles,  he  thought  all  men  cor- 
rupt and  interested,  and  yet  did  not  dislike  them  for  being 
so.  Ilis  opinion  of  human  nature  was  Gulliver’s ; but  he 
did  not  regard  human  nature  with  GuLiver’s  horror.  He 
thought  that  he  and  his  fellow-creatures  were  Yahoos  ; and 
he  thought  a Yahoo  a very  agreeable  kind  of  animal.  No 
princes  were  ever  more  social  than  Charles  and  Philip  of 
Orleans ; yet  no  princes  ever  had  less  capacity  for  friendship. 


770  MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

Tlic  tempers  of  tliese  clever  cynics  were  so  easy,  and  their 
minds  so  languid,  that  habit  supplied  in  tliem  tlie  ])lace  of 
affection,  and  made  them  the  tools  of  people  for  whom  they 
cared  not  one  straw.  In  love,  both  were  mere  sensualists 
without  delicacy  or  tenderness.  In  politics,  both  were 
utterly  careless  of  faith  and  of  national  honor.  Charles  shut 
up  the  Exchequer.  Philip  patronized  the  System.  The 
councils  of  Charles  were  swayed  by  the  gold  of  Barillon  ; 
the  councils  of  Philip  by  the  gold  of  Walpole  Charles  for 
private  objects  made  war  on  Holland,  the  natural  ally  of 
England.  Philip  for  private  objects  made  war  on  the  Span- 
ish branch  of  the  house  of  Bourbon,  the  natural  ally,  indeed 
the  creature,  of  France.  Even  in  trifling  circumstances  the 
parallel  might  be  carried  on.  Both  these  princes  were  fond 
of  experimental  philosophy,  and  passed  in  the  laboratory 
much  time  which  would  have  been  more  advantageously 
passed  at  the  council-table.  Both  were  more  strongly  at- 
tached to  their  female  relatives  than  to  any  other  human 
being ; and  in  both  cases  it  was  suspected  that  this  attach- 
ment was  not  perfectly  innocent.  In  personal  courage,  and 
in  all  the  virtues  which  are  connected  with  personal  cour- 
age, the  Regent  was  indisputably  superior  to  Charles.  In- 
deed Charles  but  narrowly  escaped  the  stain  of  cowardice. 
Philip  was  eminently  brave,  and,  like  most  brave  men,  was 
generally  open  and  sincere.  Charles  added  dissimulation  to 
his  other  vices. 

The  administration  of  the  Regent  was  scarcely  less  per- 
nicious, and  infinitely  more  scandalous,  than  that  of  the  de- 
ceased monarch.  It  was  by  magnificent  public  works,  and 
by  wars  conducted  on  a gigantic  scale,  that  Louis  had  brought 
distress  on  his  people.  The  Regent  aggravated  that  distress 
by  frauds  of  which  a lame  duck  on  the  stock-exchange 
would  have  been  ashamed.  France,  even  while  suffering 
under  the  most  severe  calamities,  had  reverenced  the  con- 
queror. She  despised  the  swindler. 

When  Orleans  and  the  wretched  Dubois  had  disappeared, 
the  power  passed  to  the  Duke  of  Bourbon ; a prince  de- 
graded in  the  public  eye  by  the  infamously  lucrative  part 
which  he  had  taken  in  the  juggles  of  the  System,  and  by  the 
humility  with  which  he  bore  the  caprices  of  a loose  and 
imperious  woman.  It  seemed  to  be  decreed  that  every 
branch  of  the  royal  family  should  successively  incur  the  ab- 
horrence and  contempt  of  the  nation. 

Between  the  fall  of  the  Duke  of  Bourbon  and  the  death 


MIR  ABE  AU. 


777 


of  Flcury,  a few  years  of  frugal  and  moderate  government 
intervened.  Then  recommenced  the  downward  progress  of 
the  monarchy.  Profligacy  in  the  court,  extravagance  in  the 
finances,  schism  in  the  church,  faction  in  the  Parliaments, 
unjust  war  terminated  by  ignominious  peace, — all  that  indi- 
cates and  all  that  produces  the  ruin  of  great  empires,  make 
up  the  history  of  that  miserable  period.  Abroad,  the 
French  were  beaten  and  humbled  everywhere,  by  land  and 
by  sea,  on  the  Elbe  and  on  the  Rhine,  in  Asia  and  in  Amer- 
ica. At  home,  they  were  turned  over  from  vizier  to  vizier, 
and  from  sultana  to  sultana,  till  they  had  reached  that  point 
beneath  Avhich  there  was  no  lower  abyss  of  infamy, — till 
the  yoke  of  Maupeouhad  made  them  pine  for  Choiseul,~till 
Madame  du  Barri  had  taught  them  to  regret  Madame  de 
Pompadour. 

But,  unpopular  as  the  monarchy  had  become,  the  aris- 
tocracy was  more  unpopular  still ; — and  not  without  reason. 
The  tyranny  of  an  individual  is  far  more  supportable  than 
the  tyranny  of  a caste.  The  old  privileges  were  galling  and 
hateful  to  the  new  wealth  and  the  new  knowledge.  Every- 
thing indicated  the  approach  of  no  common  revolution, — of 
a revolution  destined  to  change,  not  merely  the  form  of 
government,  but  the  distribution  of  property  and  the  whole 
social  system, — of  a revolution  the  effects  of  which  were  to 
be  felt  at  every  fireside  in  France, — of  a neAv  Jaquerie,  in 
which  the  victory  was  to  remain  with  Jaques  honhomme. 
In  the  van  of  the  movement  were  the  moneyed  men  and 
the  men  of  letters, — the  Avounded  pride  of  wealth  and  the 
wounded  pride  of  intellect.  An  immense  multitude,  made 
ignorant  and  cruel  by  oppression,  was  raging  in  the  rear. 

We  greatly  doubt  whether  any  course  which  could  have 
been  pursued  by  Louis  the  Sixteenth  could  have  averted  a 
great  convulsion.  But  we  are  sure  that,  if  there  was  such 
a course  it  Avas  the  course  recommended  by  M.  Turgot.  The 
church  and  the  aristocracy, Avith  that  blindness  to  danger,  that 
incapacity  of  belicAung  that  anything  can  be  except  what  has 
been,  w^hichthe  long  possession  of  poAver  seldom  fails  to  gen- 
erate, mocked  at  the  counsel  wLich  might  haA^e  saved  them. 
They  would  not  have  reform  ; and  they  had  revolution.  They 
would  not  pay  a small  contribution  in  place  of  the  odious 
corvees  ; and  they  lived  to  see  their  castles  demolished,  and 
their  lands  sold  to  strangers.  They  would  not  endure  Tur- 
got ; and  they  Avere  forced  to  endure  Robespierre. 

Then  the  rulers  of  France,  as  if  smitten  with  judicial 


778  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

blindness,  ]>liingcd  lioad^ong  into  tlic  American  war.  They 
thus  committed  at  once  two  great  errors.  They  encouraged 
the  spirit  of  revolution.  They  augmented  at  the  same  time 
those  public  burdens,  the  pressure  of  which  is  generally  the 
immediate  cause  of  revolutions.  The  event  of  the  war 
carried  to  the  height  the  enthusiasm  of  speculative  demo- 
crats. The  financial  difficulties  produced  by  the  Avar  carried 
to  the  lieight  the  discontent  of  that  larger  body  of  people 
who  cared  little  about  theories  and  much  about  taxes. 

The  meeting  of  the  States-General  Avas  the  signal  for  the 
explosion  of  all  the  hoarded  passions  of  a century.  In  that 
assembly,  there  Avere  undoubtedly  very  able  men.  But  they 
had  no  practical  knowledge  of  the  art  of  government.  All 
the  great  English  revolutions  have  been  conducted  by  prac- 
tical statesmen.  The  French  Revolution  Avas  conducted  by 
mere  speculators.  Our  constitution  has  never  been  so 
far  behind  the  age  as  to  have  become  an  object  of  aversion 
to  the  people.  The  English  revolutions  have  therefore  been 
undertaken  for  the  purpose  of  defending,  correcting,  and 
restoring, — neA^er  for  the  mere  purpose  of  destroying.  Our 
countrymen  haA^e  ahvays,  even  in  times  of  the  greatest  excite- 
ment, spoken  reverently  of  the  form  of  government  under 
which  they  lived,  and  attacked  only  what  they  regarded  as 
its  corruptions.  In  the  very  act  of  innovating  they  have 
constantly  appealed  to  ancient  prescription;  they  have 
seldom  looked  abroad  for  models ; they  have  seldom 
troubled  themselves  with  Utopian  theories ; they  have  not 
been  anxious  to  prove  that  liberty  is  a natural  right  of  men ; 
they  have  been  content  to  regard  it  as  the  lawful  birthright 
of  Englishmen.  Their  social  contract  is  no  fiction.  It  is 
still  extant  on  the  original  parchment,  sealed  with  wax 
which  Avas  affixed  at  Runnymede,  and  attested  by  the  lordly 
names  of  the  Marischals  and  Fitzherberts.  No  general  argu- 
ments about  the  original  equality  of  men,  no  fine  stories  out 
of  Plutarch  and  Cornelius  Nepos,  have  eA^er  affected  them 
BO  much  as  their  own  familiar  words, — Magna  Charta, — 
Habeas  Corpus, — Trial  by  Jury, — Bill  of  Rights.  This  part 
of  our  national  character  has  undoubtedly  its  disad\^antages. 
An  Englishman  too  often  reasons  on  politics  in  the  spirit 
rather  of  a lawyer  than  of  a philosopher.  There  is  too  often 
something  narroAA^  something  exclusive,  something  Jewislu 
if  Ave  may  use  the  Avord,  in  his  loA^e  of  freedom.  He  is  dis- 
posed to  consider  popular  rights  as  the  special  heritage  of 
the  chosen  race  to  Avhich  be  belongs,  He  m inclined  rather 


MIRABEAU. 


779 


to  repel  than  to  encourage  the  alien  proselyte  who  aspires  to 
a share  of  his  |)rivileges.  Very  different  was  the  spirit  of 
the  Constituent  Assembly.  They  had  none  of  our  narrow- 
ness ; but  they  had  none  of  our  practical  skill  in  the  manage- 
ment of  affairs.  They  did  not  understand  how  to  regulate 
the  order  of  their  own  debates ; and  they  the  ught  them- 
selves able  to  legislate  for  the  whole  world.  All  the  past 
was  loathsome  to  them.  All  their  agreeable  associations 
were  connected  with  the  future.  Hopes  were  to  them  all 
that  recollections  are  to  us.  In  the  institutions  of  their 
country  they  found  nothing  to  love  or  to  admire.  As  far 
back  as  they  could  look,  they  saw  only  the  tyranny  of  one 
class  and  the  degradation  of  another, — Frank  and  Gaul, 
knight  and  villein,  gentleman  and  roturier.  They  hated  the 
monarchy,  the  church,  the  nobility.  They  cared  nothing  for 
the  States  or  the  Parliament.  It  was  long  the  fashion  to 
ascribe  all  the  follies  which  they  committed  to  the  writings 
of  the  philosophers.  We  believe  that  it  was  misrule,  and 
nothing  but  misrule,  that  put  the  sting  into  those  writings. 
It  is  not  true  that  the  French  abandoned  experience  for 
theories.  They  took  up  with  theories  because  they  had  no 
experience  of  good  government.  It  was  because  they  had 
no  charter  that  they  ranted  about  the  original  contract.  As 
soon  as  tolerable  institutions  were  given  to  them,  they  began 
to  look  to  those  institutions.  In  1830  their  rallying  cry  was 
Vive  la  Charter  In  1789  thev  had  nothing  but  theories 
round  which  to  rally.  They  had  seen  social  distinctions 
only  in  a bad  form ; and  it  was  therefore  natural  that  they 
should  be  deluded  by  sophisms  about  the  equality  of  men. 
They  had  experienced  so  much  evil  from  the  sovereignty  of 
kings  that  they  might  be  excused  for  lending  a ready  ear  to 
those  who  preached,  in  an  exaggerated  form,  the  doctrine  of 
the  sovereignty  of  the  people. 

The  English,  content  with  their  own  national  recollec- 
tions and  names,  have  never  sought  for  models  in  the  insti- 
tutions of  Greece  or  Rome.  The  French,  having  nothing  in 
their  own  history  to  which  they  could  look  back  with 
pleasure,  had  recourse  to  the  history  of  the  great  ancient 
commonwealths  : they  drew  their  notions  of  those  common- 
wealths, not  from  contemporary  writers,  but  from  romances 
written  by  pedantic  moralists  long  after  the  extinction  of 
public  liberty.  They  neglected  Thucydides  for  Plutarch. 
Blind  tliemselves,  they  took  blind  guides.  They  had  no 
experience  of  freedom ; and  they  took  their  opinions  con^ 


?80  Macaulay’s  MIscELLA^^^:ous  writings. 

cerning  it  from  men  who  had  no  more  experience  of  it  than 
themselves,  and  whose  imaginations,  inflamed  hy  mystery 
and  privation,  exaggerated  tlie  unknown  enjoyment; — from 
men  who  raved  about  patriotism  without  having  ever  had  a 
country,  and  eulogized  tyrannicide  while  crouching  before 
tyrants.  The  maxim  which  the  French  legislators  beamed 
in  this  school  was,  that  political  liberty  is  an  end,  and  not  a 
means  ; that  it  is  not  merely  valuable  as  the  great  safe -guard 
of  order,  of  property,  and  of  morality,  but  that  it  is  in  itself 
a high  and  exquisite  happiness  to  which  order,  property  and 
morality  ought  without  one  scruple  to^be  sacrificed.  The 
lessons  which  may  be  learned  from  ancient  history  are 
indeed  most  useful  and  important;  but  they  were  not  likely 
to  be  learned  by  men  who,  in  all  their  rhapsodies  about  the 
Athenian  democracy,  seemed  utterly  to  forget  that  in  that 
democracy  there  were  ten  slaves  to  one  citizen ; and  who 
constantly  decorated  their  invectives  against  the  aristocrats 
with  panegyrics  on  Brutus  and  Cato,  — two  aristocrats, 
fiercer,  prouder,  and  more  exclusive,  than  any  that  emigra- 
ted with  the  Count  of  Artois. 

We  have  never  met  with  so  vivid  and  interesting  a pic 
ture  of  the  National  Assembly  as  that  which  M.  Dumont 
has  set  before  us.  His  Mirabeau,  in  particular  is  incompar- 
able. All  the  former  Mirabeaus  were  daubs  in  comparison. 
Some  were  merely  painted  from  the  imagination — others 
were  gross  caricatures : this  is  the  very  individual,  neither  god 
nor  demon,  but  a man — a Frenchman — a Frenchman  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  wdth  great  talents,  with  strong  passions, 
depraved  by  bad  education,  surrounded  by  temptations  of 
every  kind, — made  desperate  at  one  time  by  disgrace,  and 
then  again  intoxicated  by  fame.  All  his  opposite  and  seem- 
ingly inconsistent  qualities  are  in  this  representation  so 
blended  together  as  to  make  up  a harmonious  and  natural 
whole.  Till  now,  Mirabeau  was  to  us,  and,  we  believe, 
to  most  readers  of  history,  not  a man,  but  a string  of  an- 
titheses. Henceforth  he  will  be  a real  human  being,  a 
remarkable  and  eccentric  being  indeed,  but  perfectly  com 
ceivable. 

He  was  fond,  M.  Dumont  tells  us,  of  giving  odd  com- 
pound nicknames.  Thus,  M.  de  Lafayette  was  Grandison- 
Cromwell ; the  king  of  Prussia  was  Alaric-Cottin  ; D’Es- 
premenil  was  Crispin-Catiline.  We  think  that  Mirabeau 
himself  might  be  descriln'd,  after  his  own  fashion,  as  a 
WiJkes-Ohatham.  He  hud  Wilkes’s  sensuality,  Wilkes’s 


MtRAl^EAtT. 


781 


levity,  Wilkes’s  insensibility  to  shame.  Like  Wilkes,  be 
had  brouglit  on  himself  the  censure  even  of  men  of  pleasure 
by  the  peculiar  grossness  of  his  immorality,  and  by  the  ob- 
scenity of  his  writings.  Like  Wilkes,  he  was  heedless,  not 
only  of  the  laws  of  morality,  but  of  the  laws  of  honor.  Yet 
he  affected,  like  Wilkes,  to  unite  the  character  of  the  dema- 
gogue to  that  of  the  fine  gentleman.  Like  Wilkes,  he  con- 
ciliated, by  his  good  humor  and  by  his  high  spirits,  the 
regal’d  of  many  who  despised  his  character.  Like  Wilkes, 
he  was  liideously  ugly ; like  Wilkes,  he  made  a jest  of  his 
own  ugliness;  and,  like  Wilkes,  he  was,  in  spite  of  his  ugli- 
ness, very  attentive  to  his  dress,  and  very  successful  in 
affairs  of  gallantry. 

Resembling  Wilkes  in  the  lower  and  grosser  parts  of  his 
character,  he  had,  in  his  higher  qualities,  some  affinity  to 
Chatham.  His  eloquence,  as  far  as  we  can  judge  of  it,  bore 
no  inconsiderable  resemblance  to  that  of  the  great  English 
minister.  He  was  not  eminently  successful  in  long  set 
speeches.  He  was  not,  on  the  other  hand,  a close  and  ready 
debater.  Sudden  bursts,  which  seemed  to  be  the  effect  of 
inspiration — short  sentences,  which  came  like  lightning, 
dazzling,  burning,  striking  down  everything  before  them — 
sentences  which,  spoken  at  critical  moments,  decided  the 
fate  of  great  questions— sentences  which  at  once  became 
proverbs — sentences  which  everybody  still  knows  by  heart — 
in  these  chiefly  lay  the  oratorical  power  both  of  Chatham 
and  of  Mirabeau.  There  have  been  far  greater  speakers,  and 
far  greater  statesmen,  than  either  of  them ; but  we  doubt 
whether  any  men  have,  in  modern  times,  exercised  such 
vast  personal  influence  over  stormy  and  divided  assem- 
blies. The  power  of  both  was  as  much  moral  as  intellectual. 
In  true  dignity  of  character,  in  private  and  public  virtue,  it 
may  seem  absurd  to  institute  any  comparison  between  them ; 
but  they  had  the  same  haughtiness  and  vehemence  of  tem- 
per. In  their  language  and  manner  there  was  a disdainful 
seff-confidence,  an  imperiousness,  a fierceness  of  passion, 
before  which  all  common  minds  quailed.  Even  Murray  and 
Charles  Townshend,  though  intellectually  not  inferior  to 
Chatham,  were  always  cowed  by  him.  Barnave,  in  the 
same  manner,  though  the  best  debater  in  the  National  As- 
sembly, flinched  before  the  energy  of  Mirabeau.  Men,  ex- 
cept in  bad  novels,  are  not  all  good  or  all  evil.  It  can  scarcely 
be  denied  that  the  virtue  of  Lord  Chatham  was  a little 
theatrical,  Ou  the  other  hand  there  was  in  Mirabeau,  not 


782  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

iiulecd  anyt])iiig  deserving  tlie  name  of  virtue,  but  tliat  im* 
perfect  substitute  for  virtue  Avdiich  is  found  in  almost  all 
superior  minds, — a sensibility  to  the  beautiful  and  the  good, 
which  sometimes  amounted  to  sincere  enthusiasm;  and 
which,  mingled  with  the  desire  of  admiration,  sometimes 
gave  to  his  character  a lustre  resembling  the  lustre  of  true 
goodness, — as  the  “faded  splendor  wan”  which  lingered 
round  the  fallen  archangel  resembled  the  exceeding  bright- 
ness of  those  spirits  who  had  kept  their  first  estate. 

There  are  several  other  admirable  portraits  of  eminent 
men  in  these  Memoirs.  That  of  Sieyes  in  particular,  and 
that  of  Talleyrand,  are  masterpieces,  full  of  life  and  expres- 
sion. But  nothing  in  the  book  has  interested  us  more  than 
the  view  which  M.  Dumont  has  presented  to  us,  unosten- 
tatiously, and,  we  may  say,  unconsciously,  of  his  own  char- 
acter. The  sturdy  rectitude,  the  large  charity,  the  good 
nature,  the  modesty,  the  independent  spirit,  the  ardent 
philanthropy,  the  unaffected  indifference  to  money  and  to 
fame,  make  up  a character  which,  while  it  has  nothing  un- 
natural, seems  to  us  to  approach  nearer  to  perfection  than 
any  of  the  Grandisons  and  Allworthys  of  fiction.  The  work 
is  not  indeed  precisely  such  a work  as  we  had  anticipated — it 
is  more  lively,  more  picturesque,  more  amusing  than  we  had 
promised  ourselves  ; and  it  is,  on  the  other  hand,  less  pro- 
found and  philosophic.  But,  if  it  is  not,  in  all  respects,  such  as 
might  have  been  expected  from  tlie  intellect  of  ]\f.  Dumont, 
it  is  assuredly  such  as  might  have  been  expected  from  his 
heart. 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSIOlSr  IN  SPAIN' 

{Edinburgh  Review ^ January ^ 1833.) 

The  days  when  Miscellanies  in  Prose  and  Verse  by  a 
Person  of  Honor,  and  Romances  of  M.  Scuderi,  done  into 
English  by  a Person  of  Quality,  were  attractive  to  readers 
and  profitable  to  booksellers,  have  long  gone  by.  The 
literary  privileges  once  enjoyed  by  lords  are  as  obsolete  as 

♦ Hiitory  of  the  War  qf  the  Succession  in  Spain.  By  Lord  Mabor.  8ra 
Loadcm : 1832. 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


783 


tlieir  right  to  kill  the  King’s  deer  on  their  way  to  Parlia- 
ment, or  as  their  old  remedy  of  scandalum  magnatum.  Yet 
we  must  acknowledge  that,  though  our  political  opinions 
are  by  no  means  aristocratical,  we  always  feel  kindly  dis- 
posed toward  noble  authors.  Industry  and  a taste  for 
intellectual  pleasures  are  peculiarly  respectable  in  those  who 
can  afford  to  be  idle  and  who  have  every  temptation  to  be 
dissipated.  It  is  impossible  not  to  wish  success  to  a man 
wlio,  finding  liimself  placed,  without  any  exertion  or  any 
merit  on  his  part,  above  the  mass  of  society,  voluntarily  de- 
scends from  his  eminence  in  search  of  distinctions  which  he 
may  justly  call  his  OAvn. 

This  is,  Ave  think,  the  second  appearance  of  Lord  Mahon 
in  the  character  of  an  author.  His  first  book  was  creditable 
to  him,  but  was  in  every  respect  inferior  to  the  Avork  which 
now  lies  before  us.  He  has  undoubtedly  some  of  the  most 
valuable  qualities  of  a historian,  great  diligence  in  examining 
authorities,  great  judgment  in  Aveighing  testimony,  and 
great  impartiality  in  estimating  characters.  We  are  not 
aware  that  he  has  in  any  instance  forgotten  tlie  duties  be- 
loTiging  to  his  literary  functions  in  the  feelings  of  a kinsman. 
He  does  no  more  than  justice  to  his  ancestor  Stanhope  ; he 
does  full  justice  to  Stanhope’s  enemies  and  rivals.  His 
narradA^e  is  A^ery  perspicuous,  and  is  also  entitled  to  the 
praise,  seldom,  Ave  grieve  to  say,  deserved  by  modern 
writers,  of  being  very  concise.  It  must  be  admitted,  how- 
eA^er,  that,  Avith  many  of  the  best  qualities  of  a literary  vet- 
eran, he  has  some  of  the  faults  of  a literary  novice.  He  has 
not  yet  acquired  a great  command  of  words.  His  style  is 
seldom  easy,  and  is  noAv  and  then  unpleasantly  stiff.  He  is 
so  bigoted  a purist  that  he  transforms  the  Abbe  d’Estrees 
into  an  Abbot.  We  do  not  like  to  see  French  words  intro- 
duced into  English  composition ; but,  after  ah,  the  first  law 
of  Avriting,  that  laAV  to  Avhich  all  other  laws  are  subordinate, 
is  this,  that  the  words  employed  shall  be  such  as  convey  to 
the  reader  the  meaning  of  the  writer.  Now,  an  Abbot  is 
the  head  of  a religious  house  ; an  Abbe  is  quite  a different 
sort  of  person.  It  is  better  undoubtedly  to  use  an  English 
word  than  a French  word ; but  it  is  better  to  use  a French 
word  than  to  misuse  an  English  word. 

Lord  Mahon  is  also  a little  too  fond  of  uttering  moral 
reflections  in  a style  too  sententious  and  oracular.  We  will 
give  one  instance:  “Strange  as  it  s^^ems,  experience  sliows 
that  we  usually  feel  far  more  animosity  against  those  whom 


784 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  AVIUTINGB. 


we  have  injured  than  against  those  v»’^>o  injure  us:  and  this 
remark  holds  good  witli  every  degree  of  intellect,  with 
every  class  of  fortune,  with  a prince  or  a peasant,  a stripling 
or  an  elder,  a hero  or  a prince.”  This  remark  might  have 
seemed  strange  at  the  court  of  Nimrod  or  Chcdorlaomer ; 
but  it  has  now  been  for  many  generations  considered  as  a 
truism  rather  than  a paradox.  Every  boy  has  written  on 
the  thesis  “ OcUsse  quern  IceserisP  Scarcely  any  lines  in 
English  Poetry  are  better  knoAvn  than  that  vigorous  couplet, 

“ Forpjiveiiess  to  the  injured  does  belong; 

But  they  ne’er  pardon  who  have  done  the  wrong.’* 

The  historians  and  philosophers  have  quite  done  with  this 
maxim,  and  have  abandoned  it,  like  other  maxims  which  have 
lost  their  gloss,  to  bad  novelists,  by  whom  it  will  very  soon 
be  worn  to  rags. 

It  is  no  more  than  justice  to  say  that  the  faults  of  Lord 
Mahon’s  book  are  precisely  the  faults  which  time  seldom 
fails  to  cure,  and  that  the  book,  in  spite  of  those  faults,  is  a 
valuable  addition  to  our  historical  literature. 

Whoever  wishes  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the  morbid 
anatomy  of  governments,  whoever  wishes  to  know  how 
great  States  may  be  made  feeble  and  wretched,  should  study 
the  history  of  Spain.  The  emi^ire  of  Philip  the  Second  was 
undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  splendid  that 
ever  existed  in  the  world.  In  Europe,  he  ruled  S}3ain,  Por- 
tugal, the  Netherlands  on  both  sides  of  the  Rhine,  Tranche 
Comte,  Roussillon,  the  Milanese,  and  the  Two  Sicilies. 
Tuscany,  Parma,  and  the  other  small  States  of  Italy,  were  as 
completely  dependent  on  him  as  the  Nizam  and  the  Rajah 
of  Berar  now  are  on  the  East  India  Company.  In  Asia, 
the  King  of  Spain  was  master  of  the  Philippines  and  of  all 
those  rich  settlements  which  the  Portuguese  had  made  on 
the  coasts  of  Malabar  and  Coromandel,  in  the  Peninsula  of 
Malacca,  and  in  the  spice-islands  of  the  Eastern  Archipel- 
ago. In  America,  his  dominions  extended  on  each  side  of 
the  equator  into  the  temperate  zone.  There  is  reason  to 
believe  that  his  annual  revenue  amounted,  in  the  season 
his  greatest  power,  to  a sum  near  ten  times  as  large  as  that 
which  England  yielded  to  Elizabeth.  He  had  a standing 
army  of  fifty  thousand  excellent  troops,  at  a time  when 
England  had  not  a single  battalion  in  constant  pay.  His 
ordinary  naval  force  consisted  of  a hundred  and  forty  gal- 
leys. He  held,  what  no  other  prince  in  modern  times  has 
held,  the  dominion  both  of  the  land  and  of  the  sea#  During 


WAR  OF  TUE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


785 


the  greater  part  of  his  reign  he  was  supreme  on  both  ele- 
ments. Ilis  soldiers  marched  up  to  the  capital  of  France; 
his  ships  menaced  the  shores  of  England. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that,  during  several  years, 
his  power  over  Europe  was  greater  than  even  that  of  Na- 
poleon. The  influence  of  the  French  conqueror  never 
extended  beyond  low-water  mark.  The  narrowest  strait 
was  to  his  power  what  it  was  of  old  believed  that  a running 
(Stream  was  to  the  sorceries  of  a witch.  While  his  army 
entered  every  metropolis  from  Moscow  to  Lisbon,  the  Eng- 
lish fleets  blockaded  every  port  from  Dantzic  to  Trieste. 
Sicily,  Sardinia,  Majorca,  Guernsey,  enjoyed  security 
through  the  whole  course  of  a war  which  endangered  every 
throne  on  the  Continent.  The  victorious  and  imperial  nar 
tion  which  had  filled  its  museums  with  the  spoils  of  Ant- 
werp, of  Florence,  and  of  Rome,  was  suffering  painfully 
from  the  want  of  luxuries  which  use  had  made  necessaries. 
While  pillars  and  arches  were  rising  to  commemorate  the 
French  conquests,  the  conquerors  were  trying  to  manufac- 
ture coffee  out  of  succory  and  sugar  out  of  beet-root.  The 
influence  of  Philip  on  the  Continent  was  as  great  as  that  of 
Napoleon.  The  Emperor  of  Germany  was  his  kinsman. 
France,  torn  by  religious  dissensions,  was  never  a formid- 
able opponent,  and  was  sometimes  a dependent  ally.  At  the 
same  time,  Spain  had  what  Napoleon  desired  in  vain,  ships, 
colonies,  and  commerce.  She  long  monopolized  the  trade 
of  America  and  of  the  Indian  Ocean.  All  the  gold  of  the 
West,  and  all  the  spices  of  the  East,  were  received  and  dis- 
tributed by  her.  During  many  years  of  war,  her  commerce 
was  interrupted  only  by  the  predatory -enterprises  of  a few 
roving  privateers.  Even  after  the  defeat  of  the  Armada, 
English  statesmen  continued  to  look  with  dread  on  the 
maritime  power  of  Philip.  ‘‘  The  King  of  Spain,”  said  the 
Lord  Keeper  to  the  two  Houses  in  1593,  ‘‘since  he  hath 
usurped  upon  the  kingdom  of  Portugal,  hath  thereby  grown 
mighty  by  gaining  the  East  Indies  : so  as,  how  great  soever 
he  was  before,  he  is  now  therefore  manifestly  more  great : 
*****  jjg  keepeth  a navy  armed  to  impeach  all  trade 
of  merchandise  from  England  to  Gascoigne  and  Guienne, 
which  he  attempted  to  do  this  last  vintage ; so  as  he  is 
now  become  as  a frontier  enemy  to  all  the  west  of  Eng- 
land, as  well  as  all  the  south  ])arts,  as  Sussex,  Hampshire, 
and  the  Isle  of  Wight.  Yea,  by  means  of  his  interest  in 
St,  Maloes,  a port  full  of  shipping  for  the  war^  be  is  a dan- 
Vo-U,  1^50 


786  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

gerous  neiglibor  to  tlie  Queen’s  isles  of  Jersey  and  Guernsejr, 
ancient  possessions  of  tliis  crown,  and  never  conquered  in 
the  greatest  wars  with  France.” 

The  ascendency  wliicli  S|)ain  then  had  in  Europe  was,  in 
one  sense,  well  deserved.  It  was  an  ascendency  which  had 
been  gained  by  unquestioned  superiority  in  all  the  arts  of 
policy  and  of  war.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  Italy  was  not 
more  decidedly  the  land  of  the  fine  arts,  Germany  was  not 
more  decidedly  the  land  of  bold  theological  speculation, 
than  Spain  was  the  land  of  statesmen  and  of  soldiers.  The 
character  which  Virgil  has  ascribed  to  his  countrymen 
might  have  been  claimed  by  the  grave  and  haughty  chiefs, 
who  surrounded  the  throne  of  Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  and 
of  his  immediate  successors.  That  majestic  art,  “regere 
imperio  populos,”  was  not  better  understood  by  the  Romans 
in  the  proudest  days  of  their  republic,  than  by  Gonsalvo 
and  Ximenes,  Cortez  and  Alva.  The  skill  of  the  Spanish 
diplomatists  was  renowned  throughout  Europe.  In  England 
the  name  of  Gondomar  is  still  remembered.  The  sovereign 
nation  was  unrivalled  both  in  regular  and  irregular  warfare. 
The  impetuous  chivalry  of  France,  the  serried  phalanx  of 
Switzerland,  were  alike  found  wanting  when  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  Spanish  infantry.  In  the  wars  of  the  New 
World,  where  something  different  from  ordinary  strategy 
was  required  in  the  general  and  something  different  from 
ordinary  discipline  in  the  soldier,  where  it  was  every  day 
necessary  to  meet  by  some  new  expedient  the  varying  tac- 
tics of  a barbarous  enemy,  the  Spanish  adventurers,  sprung 
from  the  common  people,  displayed  a fertility  of  resource, 
and  a talent  for  negotiation  and  command,  to  which  history 
scarcely  affords  a parallel. 

The  Castilian  of  those  times  was  to  the  Italian  what  the 
Roman,  in  the  days  of  the  greatness  of  Rome,  was  to  the 
Greek.  The  conqueror  had  less  ingenuity,  less  taste,  less 
delicacy  of  perception  than  the  conquered ; but  far  more 
pride,  firmness,  and  courage,  a more  solemn  demeanor,  a 
stronger  sense  of  honor.  The  subject  had  more  subtlety 
in  speculation,  the  ruler  more  energy  in  action.  The  vices 
of  the  former  were  those  of  a coward  ; the  vices  of  the  lat- 
ter were  those  of  a tyrant.  It  may  be  added  that  the 
Spaniard,  like  the  Roman,  did  not  disdain  to  study  the  arts 
and  the  language  of  those  whom  he  oppressed.  A revolution 
took  place  in  the  literature  of  Spain,  not  unlike  that  revolu- 
tioB  which,  as  Horace  tells  usj  took  place  in  the  poetry  of 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN.  787 

Latium  : “ Capta  ferum  victorem  cepit.”  The  slave  took 
j)risoiier  llie  enslaver.  The  old  Castilian  ballads  gave  place 
to  sonnets  in  the  style  of  Petrarch,  and  to  heroic  poems  in 
the  stanza  of  Ariosto,  as  the  national  songs  of  Rome  were 
driven  out  by  imitations  of  Theocritus,  and  translations 
from  Menander. 

In  no  modern  society,  not  even  in  England  during  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  has  there  been  so  great  a number  of  men 
eminent  at  once  in  literature  and  in  the  pursuit  of  active 
life,  as  Spain  produced  during  the  sixteenth  century.  Al- 
most every  writer  was  also  distinguished  as  a soldier  and  a 
politician.  Boscan  bore  arms  with  high  reputation.  Gar- 
cilaso  de  Vega,  the  author  of  the  sweetest  and  most  grace- 
ful pastoral  poem  of  modern  times,  after  a short  but  splen- 
did military  career,  fell  sword  in  hand  at  the  head  of  a 
storming  party.  Alonzo  de  Ercilla  bore  a conspicuous  part 
in  that  war  of  Arauco,  which  he  afterwards  celebrated  in 
one  of  the  best  heroic  poems  that  Spain  has  produced. 
Hurtado  de  Mendoza,  whose  poems  have  been  compared  to 
those  of  Horace,  and  whose  charming  little  novel  is  evi- 
dently the  model  of  Gil  Bias,  has  been  handed  down  to  us 
by  history  as  one  of  the  sternest  of  those  iron  pro-consuls 
who  were  employed  by  the  House  of  Austria  to  crush  the 
lingering  public  spirit  of  Italy.  Lope  sailed  in  the  Armada ; 
Cervantes  was  wounded  at  Lepanto. 

It  is  curious  to  consider  with  how  much  awe  our  ances- 
tors in  those  times  regarded  a Spaniard.  He  was,  in  their 
apprehension,  a kind  of  daemon,  horribly  malevolent,  but 
withal  most  sagacious  and  powerful.  “ They  be  verye  wyse 
and  politicke,’’  says  an  honest  Englishman,  in  a memorial 
addressed  to  Mary,  “ and  can,  thorowe  ther  wysdome,  re- 
form and  brydell  theyr  owne  natures  for  a tyme,  and  ap- 
plye  their  conditions  to  the  maners  of  those  men  with  whom 
they  meddell  gladlye  by  friendshippe ; whose  mischievous 
maners  a man  shall  never  knowe  untyll  he  come  under  ther 
subjection  : but  then  shall  he  parfectlye  parcey  ve  and  fele 
them  : which  thynge  I praye  God  England  never  do  ; for  in 
dissimulations  untyll  they  have  ther  purposes,  and  after- 
wards in  oppression  and  tyranny e,  when  they  can  obtayne 
them,  they  do  exceed  all  other  nations  upon  the  earthe.” 
This  is  just  such  language  as  Arminius  would  have  used 
about  the  Romans,  or  as  an  Indian  statesman  of  our  times 
might  use  about  the  English.  It  is  the  language  of  a man 
burning  with  hatred,  but  cowed  by  those  whom  he  bates ; 


788 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  WRitiNCis. 


and  painfully  sensible  of  their  superioiity,  not  only  in 
power,  but  in  intelligence. 

But  how  art  thou  fallen  from  heaven,  O Lucifer,  son  of 
the  morning!  How  art  thou  cut  down  to  the  ground,  that 
didst  weaken  the  nations ! If  we  overleap  a hundred  years, 
and  look  at  Spain  towards  the  close  cf  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, what  a change  do  we  find  ! The  contrast  is  as  great 
as  that  which  the  Rome  of  Gallienus  and  Ilonorius  presents 
to  the  Rome  of  Marius  and  Ca3sar.  Foreign  conquest  had 
begun  to  eat  into  every  part  of  that  gigantic  monarchy  on 
which  the  sun  never  set.  Holland  was  gone,  and  Portugal, 
and  Artois,  and  Roussillon,  and  Franche  Comte.  In  the 
East,  the  empire  founded  by  the  Dutch  far  surpassed  in 
wealth  and  splendor  that  which  their  old  tyrants  still  re- 
tained.  In  the  West,  England  had  seized,  and  still  held, 
settlements  in  the  midst  of  the  Mexican  sea. 

The  mere  loss  of  territory  was,  however,  of  little  mo- 
ment. The  reluctant  obedience  of  distant  provinces  gen- 
erally costs  more  than  it  is  worth.  Empires  which  branch 
out  widely  are  often  more  flourishing  for  a little  timely  prun- 
ing. Adrian  acted  judiciously  when  he  abandoned  the  con- 
quests of  Trajan  ; and  England  was  never  so  rich,  so  great, 
so  formidable  to  foreign  princes,  so  absolutely  mistress  of 
the  sea,  as  since  the  loss  of  her  American  colonies.  The 
Spanish  empire  was  still,  in  outward  appearance,  great  and 
magnificent.  The  European  dominions  subject  to  the  last 
feeble  Prince  of  the  House  of  Austria  were  far  more  exten- 
sive than  those  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth.  The  American 
dependencies  of  the  Castilian  crown  still  extended  far  to 
the  South  of  Capricorn.  But  within  this  immense  body 
there  was  an  incurable  decay,  an  utter  want  of  tone,  an  utter 
prostration  of  strength.  An  ingenious  and  diligent  popula- 
tion, eminently  skilled  in  arts  and  manufactures,  had  been 
driven  into  exile  by  stupid  and  remorseless  bigots.  The 
glory  of  the  Spanish  pencil  had  departed  with  Velasquez 
and  Murillo.  The  splendid  age  of  Spanish  literature  had 
closed  with  Solis  and  Calderon.  During  the  seventeenth 
century  many  states  had  formed  great  military  establish- 
ments. But  the  Spanish  army,  so  formidable  under  the  com- 
mand of  Alva  and  Farnese,  had  dwindled  away  to  a few 
thousand  men,  ill  paid  and  ill  disciplined.  England,  Hol- 
land, and  France  had  great  navies.  But  the  Spanish  navy 
was  scarcely  equal  to  the  tenth  part  of  that  mighty  force 
which,  in  the  time  of  Philip  the  Second,  had  been  the  ter* 


-i 


SVAll  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


m 


ror  of  the  Atlantic  anc^l  tlic  ircditcrranean.  The  arsenals 
were  deserted.  The  magazines  were  nn])rovided.  The 
frontier  fortresses  were  iingarrisoned.  The  police  was 
utterly  inefhcient  for  the  protection  of  the  people.  Murders 
were  committed  in  tlie  face  of  day  with  perfect  impunity. 
Bravoes  and  discarded  serving-men,  witli  swords  at  their 
sides,  swaggered  every  day  through  the  most  public  streets 
and  squares  of  the  capital,  disturbing  the  public  peace,  and 
setting  at  defiance  the  ministers  of  justice.  The  finances 
were  in  frightful  disorder.  The  people  paid  much.  The 
government  received  little.  The  Ameriean  viceroys  and  the 
farmers  of  the  revenue  became  rich,  while  the  merchants 
broke,  while  the  peasan  try  starved,  while  the  body-servants  of 
the  sovereign  remained  unpaid,  while  the  soldiers  of  the  royal 
guard  repaired  daily  to  the  doors  of  convents,  and  battled 
there  with  the  crowd  of  beggars  for  a porringer  of  broth  and 
a morsel  of  bread.  Every  remedy  which  was  tried  aggra- 
vated the  disease.  The  currency  was  altered;  and  this 
frantic  measure  produced  its  never-failing  effects.  It  de- 
stroyed all  credit,  and  increased  the  misery  which  it  was  in- 
tended to  relieve.  The  American  gold,  to  use  the  words  of 
Ortiz,  was  to  the  necessities  of  the  state  but  as  a drop  of 
water  to  the  lips  of  a man  raging  with  thirst.  Heaps  of 
unopened  despatches  accumulated  in  the  offices,  while  the 
Ministers  were  concerting  with  bedchamber-women  and 
Jesuits  the  means  of  tripping  up  each  other.  Every  foreign 
power  could  plunder  and  insult  with  impunity  the  heir  of 
Charles  the  Fifth.  Into  such  a state  had  the  mighty  kingdom 
of  Spain  fallen,  while  one  of  its  smallest  dependencies,  a 
country  not  so  large  as  the  province  of  Estremadura  or  An- 
dalusia, situated  under  an  inclement  sky,  and  preserved  only 
by  artificial  means  from  the  inroads  of  the  ocean,  had  be- 
come a power  of  the  first  class,  and  treated  on  terms  of 
equality  with  the  courts  of  London  and  Versailles. 

The  manner  in  which  Lord  Mahon  explains  the  financial 
situation  of  Spain  by  no  means  satisfies  us.  “ It  will  be 
found,”  says  he,  ‘‘  that  those  individuals  deriving  their  chief 
income  from  mines,  whose  yearly  produce  is  uncertain  and 
varying,  and  seems  rather  to  spring  from  fortune  than  to 
follow  industry,  are  usually  careless,  unthrifty,  and  irregular 
in  their  expenditure.  The  example  of  Spain  might  tempt 
us  to  apply  the  same  remark  to  states.”  Lord  Mahon  would 
find  it  difficult,  we  suspect,  to  make  out  his  analogy.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  uncertain  and  varying  than  the  gains  and 


790 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


losses  of  those  who  were  in  the  liahit  of  putting  into  the 
State  lotteries.  Ihit  no  part  of  tlie  j)iiblic  income  was  more 
certain  than  tliat  Avliich  was  derived  from  the ' lotteries. 
We  believe  that  this  case  is  very  similar  to  that  of  the 
American  mines.  Some  veins  of  ore  exceeded  expectation  ; 
some  fell  below  it.  Some  of  the  ])rivate  speculators  drew 
blanks,  and  others  gained  prizes.  But  the  revenue  of  the 
State  depended,  not  on  any  particular  vein,  but  on  the  whole 
annual  produce  of  two  great  continents.  This  annual  pro- 
duce seems  to  have  been  almost  constantly  on  the  increase’ 
during  the  seventeenth  century.  The  Mexican  mines  were, 
through  the  reigns  of  Philip  the  Fourth  and  Charles  th^ 
Second,  in  a steady  course  of  improvement ; and  in  South 
America,  though  the  district  of  Potosi  was  not  so  productive 
as  formerly,  other  places  more  than  made  up  for  the  defi- 
ciency. We  very  much  doubt  whether  Lord  Mahon  can 
})rove  that  the  income  which  the  Spanish  government  de- 
rived from  the  mines  of  America  fluctuated  more  than  the 
income  derived  from  the  internal  taxes  of  SjDain  itself. 

All  the  causes  of  the  decay  of  Spain  resolve  themselves 
into  one  cause,  bad  government.  The  valor,  the  intelligence, 
the  energy  which,  at  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  and  the  begin- 
ning of  the  sixteenth  century,  had  made  the  Spaniards  the 
first  nation  in  the  Avorld,  Avere  the  fruits  of  the  old  institu- 
tions of  Castile  and  Arragon,  institutions  eminently  favorable 
to  public  liberty.  Those  institutions  the  first  Princes  of  the 
House  of  Austria  attacked  and  almost  wholly  destroyed. 
Their  successors  expiated  the  crime.  The  effects  of  a change 
from  good  government  to  bad  government  is  not  fully  felt 
for  some  time  after  the  change  has  taken  place.  The  talents 
and  the  virtues  which  a good  constitution  generates  may 
for  a time  survive  that  constitutioi.  Thus  the  reigns  of 
princes  who  have  established  absolute  monarchy  on  the 
ruins  of  popular  forms  of  government  often  shine  in  history 
with  a peculiar  brilliancy  But  when  a generation  or  two 
has  passed  away,  then  comes  signally  to  pass  that  which  was 
written  by  Montesquieu,  that  despotic  governments  resemble 
those  savages  who  cut  down  the  tree  in  order  to  get  at  the 
fruit.  Duiung  the  first  years  of  tyranny  is  reaped  the  har- 
vest sown  during  the  last  years  of  liberty.  Thus  the  Augus- 
ts.n  age  was  rich  in  great  minds  formed  in  the  generation 
of  Cicero  and  CaBsar.  The  fruits  of  the  policy  of  Augustus 
were  reserved  for  posterity.  Philip  the  Second  was  the 
heir  :>f  the  Cortez  and  of  the  Justiza  Mayor;  and  they  left 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


7D1 


him  a nation  wliich  seemed  able  to  conquer  all  the  world 
What  Philip  left  to  his  successors  is  well  known. 

The  shock  which  the  great  religious  schism  of  the  six- 
teenth century  gave  to  Europe,  Avas  scarcely  felt  in  Spain. 
In  England,  Germany,  Holland,  France,  Denmark,  Swit- 
zerland, Sweden,  that  shock  had  produced,  with  some 
temporary  evil,  much  durable  good.  The  principles  of  the 
Ileformation  had  triumphed  in  some  of  those  countries. 
The  Catholic  Church  had  maintained  its  ascendency  in  others 
But  though  the  event  had  not  been  the  same  in  all,  all  had 
been  agitated  by  the  conflict.  Even  in  France,  in  Southern 
I Germany,  and  in  the  Catholic  cantons  of  Switzerland,  the 
[ public  mind  had  been  stirred  to  its  inmost  depths.  The 
hold  of  ancient  prejudice  had  been  sorneAvhat  loosened.  The 
Church  of  Rome,  warned  by  the  danger  which  she  had  nar- 
rowly escaped,  had,  in  those  parts  of  her  dominion,  assumed 
a milder  and  more  liberal  character.  She  sometimes  con- 
descended to  submit  her  high  pretensions  to  the  scrutiny  of 
reason,  and  availed  lierself  more  sparingly  than  in  former 
times  of  the  aid  of  the  secular  arm.  Even  when  persecu- 
tion was  employed,  it  was  not  persecution  in  the  Avorst  and 
most  frightful  shape.  The  severities  of  Lewis  the  Four- 
teenth, odious  as  they  were,  cannot  be  compared  Avith  those 
Avhich,  at  the  first  daAvn  of  the  Reformation,  had  been  in 
! flicted  on  the  heretics  in  many  parts  of  Europe, 
j The  only  effect  Avhich  the  Reformation  had  produced 
in  Spain  had  been  to  make  the  Inquisition  more  vigilant 
and  the  commonalty  more  bigoted.  The  times  of  refresh- 
ing came  to  all  neighboring  countries.  One  people  alone 
remained,  like  the  fleece  of  the  HebreAv  Avarrior,  dry  in  the 
midst  of  that  benignant  and  fertilizing  deAV.  While  other 
nations  were  putting  away  childish  things,  the  Spaniard 
still  thought  as  a child  and  understood  as  a child.  Among 
uhe  men  of  the  seventeenth  century,  he  w^as  the  man  of  the 
fifteenth  century  or  of  a still  darker  period,  delighted  to  be- 
hold an  Auto  da  fe^  and  ready  to  volunteer  on  a Crusade. 

The  evils  produced  by  a bad  government  and  a bad  re- 
ligion, seemed  to  haA^e  attained  their  greatest  height  during 
the  last  years  of  the  seventeenth  century.  While  the  king- 
dom was  in  this  deplorable  state,  the  King,  Charles,  second 
of  the  name,  was  hastening  to  an  early  grave.  Ilis  days 
had  been  few  and  eAul.  He  had  been  unfortunate  in  all  his 
wars,  in  every  part  of  his  internal  administration,  and  in  all 
his  domestic  relations^  His  first  Avlfe,  whom  he  tenderly 


792 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  'WHITINGS. 


loved,  died  very  young.  Ills  second  wife  exercisevl  great 
influence  over  him,  hut  seems  to  liave  been  regarded  by  him 
rather  with  fear  than  with  love.  He  was  childless  ; and  his 
constitution  was  so  completely  shattered  that,  at  little  more 
than  thirty,  years  of  age,  he  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  pos- 
terity. Ilis  mind  was  even  more  distempered  than  his 
body.  He  was  sometimes  sunk  in  listless  melancholy,  and 
sometimes  harassed  by  the  wildest  and  most  extravagant 
fancies.  He  was  not,  however,  wholly  destitute  of  the  feel- 
ings which  became  his  station.  His  sufferings  were  aggra- 
vated by  the  thought  that  his  owm  dissolution  might  not 
improbably  be  followed  by  the  dissolution  of  his  empire. 

Several  princes  laid  claim  to  the  succession.  The  King’s 
eldest  sister  had  married  Lewis  the  Fourteenth.  The  Dau- 
phin would,  therefore,  in  the  common  course  of  inheritance, 
have  succeeded  to  the  crown.  But  the  Infanta  had,  at  the 
time  of  her  espousals,  solemnly  renounced,  in  her  own  name, 
and  in  that  of  her  posterity,  all  claim  to  the  succession. 
This  renunciation  had  been  confirmed  in  due  form  by  the 
Cortes.  A younger  sister  of  the  King  had  been  the  first 
wife  of  Leopold,  Emperor  of  Germany.  She  too  had  at  her 
marriage  renounced  her  claims  to  the  Spanish  crown  ; but 
the  Cortes  had  not  sanctioned  the  renunciation,  and  it  w^as 
therefore  considered  as  invalid  by  the  Spanish  jurists.  The 
fruit  of  this  marriage  was  a daughter,  who  had  espoused 
the  Elector  of  Bavaria.  The  Electoral  Prince  of  Bavaria 
inherited  her  claim  to  the  throne  of  Spain.  The  Emperor 
Leopold  was  son  of  a daughter  of  Philip  the  Third,  and 
was  therefore  first  cousin  to  Charles.  'No  renunciation 
whatever  had  been  exacted  from  his  mother  at  the  time  of 
her  marriage. 

The  question  was  certainly  very  complicated.  That 
claim  which,  according  to  the  ordinary  rules  of  inheritance, 
was  the  strongest,  had  been  barred  by  a contract  executed 
in  the  most  binding  form.  The  claim  of  the  Electoral 
Prince  of  Bavaria  was  weaker.  But  so  also  was  the  con- 
tract which  bound  him  not  to  prosecute  his  claim.  The 
only  party  against  whom  no  instrument  of  renunciation 
could  be  produced  was  the  party  who,  in  respect  of  blood, 
had  the  weakest  claim  of  all. 

As  it  was  clear  that  great  alarm  would  be  excited 
throughout  Europe  if  either  the  Emperor  or  the  Dauphin 
should  become  King  of  Spain,  each  of  those  Princes  offered 
lo  waive  his  pretensions  in  favor  of  his  second  son  ; the 


WAR  OP  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


793 


Emperor,  in  favor  of  the  Archduke  Charles,  the  Dauphin, 
in  favor  of  Philip,  Duke  of  Anjou. 

Soon  after  the  peace  of  Ryswick,  William  the  Third 
and  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  determined  to  settle  the  question 
of  the  succession  without  consulting  either  Charles  or  the 
Emperor.  France,  England,  and  Holland,  became  parties 
(o  a treaty  by  which  it  was  stipulated  that  the  Electoral 
Prince  of  Bavaria  should  succeed  to  Spain,  the  Indies,  and 
the  Netherlands.  The  Imperial  family  were  to  be  bought 
off  with  the  Milanese;  and  the  Dauphin  was  to  have  the 
Two  Sicilies. 

The  great  object  of  the  King  of  Spain  and  of  all  his 
counsellors  was  to  avert  the  dismemberment  of  the  mon- 
archy. In  the  hope  of  attaining  this  end,  Charles  deter- 
mined to  name  a successor.  A will  was  accordingly  framed 
by  which  the  crown  was  bequeathed  to  the  Bavarian  Prince. 
Unhappily,  this  will  had  scarcely  been  signed  when  the 
Prince  died.  The  question  was  again  unsettled,  and  pre- 
sented greater  difficulties  than  before. 

A new  Treaty  of  Partition  was  concluded  between 
France,  England,  and  Holland.  It  was  agreed  that  Spain, 
the  Indies,  and  t>he  Netherlands,  should  descend  to  the 
Archduke  Charles.  In  return  for  this  great  concession 
made  by  the  Bourbons  to  a rival  house,  it  was  agreed  that 
France  should  have  4he  Milanese,  or  an  equivalent  in  a 
more  commodious  situation.  The  equivalent  in  view  was 
the  province  of  Lorraine. 

Arbuthnot,  some  years  later,  ridiculed  the  Partition 
Treaty  with  exquisite  humor  and  ingenuity.  Everybody 
must  remember  his  description  of  the  paroxysm  of  rage  into 
which  poor  old  Lord  Strutt  fell,  on  hearing  that  his  run- 
away servant  Nick  Frog,  his  clothier  John  Bull,  and  his 
old  enemy,  Lewis  Baboon,  had  come  with  quadrants,  poles, 
and  inkhorns,  to  survey  his  estate,  and  to  draw  his  will  for 
him.  Lord  Mahon  speaks  of  the  arrangement  with  grave 
severity.  He  calls  it,  an  iniquitous  compact,  concluded 
without  the  slightest  reference  to  the  welfare  of  the  States 
so  readily  parcelled  and  allotted  ; insulting  to  the  pride  of 
Spain,  and  tending  to  strip  that  country  of  its  hard-won 
conquests.”  The  most  serious  part  of  this  charge  would 
apply  to  half  the  treaties  which  have  been  concluded  in 
Europe  quite  as  strongly  as  to  the  Partition  Treaty.  What 
regard  was  shown  in  the  treaty  of  tlie  Pyrenees  to  the  wel- 
fare of  the  people  of  Dunkirk  and  Roussillon,  in  the  treaty 


794  MACAtJLAT’s  M1SCELLA:^^E0US  WlilTIKGS. 

\;i  Nirneguen  to  tlie  welfare  of  the  people  of  Franche  CoiatS, 
xii  the  treaty  of  Utrecht  to  the  welfare  of  Flanders,  in  the 
treaty  of  1735  to  the  welfare  of  the  people  of  Tuscany?  All 
Europe  remembers,  and  our  latest  posterity  will,  we  fear, 
have  reason  to  remember  how  coolly,  at  the  last  great  pacb 
fication  of  Christendom,  the  people  of  Poland,  of  Norway, 
of  Belgium,  and  of  Lombardy,  were  allotted  to  masters 
whom  they  abhorred.  The  statesmen  who  negotiated  the 
Pai’tition  Treaty  were  not  so  far  beyond  their  age  and  ours 
in  wisdom  and  virtue  as  to  trouble  themselves  much  about 
the  happiness  of  the  people  whom  they  were  apportioning 
among  foreign  rulers.  But  it  will  be  difficult  to  prove  that 
the  stipulations  which  Lord  Mahon  condemns  were  in  any 
respect  unfavorable  to  the  happiness  of  those  who  were  to 
be  transferred  to  new  sovereigns.  The  Neapolitans  would 
certainly  have  lost  nothing  by  being  given  to  the  Dauphin, 
or  to  the  Great  Turk.  Addison,  who  visited  Naples  about 
the  time  at  which  the  Partition  Treaty  was  signed,  has  left 
us  a frightful  description  of  the  misgovernment  under  which 
that  part  of  the  Spanish  Empire  groaned.  As  to  the  peo- 
ple of  Lorraine,  an  union  with  France  would  have  been  the 
happiest  event  Avhich  could  have  befallen  them.  Lewis  was 
already  their  sovereign  for  all  purposes  of  cruelty  and  ex- 
action. He  had  kept  their  country  during  many  years  in 
his  own  hands.  At  the  peace  of  Ryswick,  indeed,  their 
Duke  had  been  allowed  to  return.  But  the  conditions 
which  had  been  imposed  on  him  made  him  a mere  vassal  of 
France.  ♦ 

We  cannot  admit  that  the  Treaty  of  Partition  was  ob- 
jectionable because  it  “tended  to  strip  Spain  of  hard-won 
conquests.”  The  inheritance  was  so  vast,  and  the  claimants 
BO  mighty,  that  without  some  dismemberment  it  was  scarcely 
possible  to  make  a peaceable  arrangement.  If  any  dismem- 
berment was  to  take  place,  the  best  way  of  effecting  it 
Burely  was  to  separate  from  the  monarchy  those  provinces 
which  were  at  a great  distance  from  Spain,  which  were  not 
Spanish  in  manners,  in  language,  or  in  feelings,  which  were 
both  worse  governed  and  less  valuable  than  the  old  king- 
doms of  Castile  and  Arragon,  and  which,  having  always 
been  governed  by  foreigners,  would  not  be  likely  to  feel 
acutely  the  humiliation  of  being  turned  over  from  one  mas- 
ter to  another. 

That  England  and  Holland  had  a right  to  interfere  is 
plain.  The  question  of  the  Spanish  succession  was  not  an 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


796 


internal  question,  but  an  European  question.  And  this 
Lord  Mahon  admits.  He  thinks  that  when  the  evil  had 
been  done,  and  a French  Prince  was  reigning  at  the  Escu 
rial,  England  and  Holland  were  justified  in  attempting,  not 
merely  to  strip  Spain  of  its  remote  dependencies,  but  to 
conquer  Spain  itself ; that  they  were  justified  in  attempt- 
ing to  put,  not  merely  the  passive  Flemings  and  Italians, 
but  the  reluctant  Castilians  and  Asturians,  under  the  do- 
minion of  a stranger.  The  danger  against  which  the  Par- 
tition Treaty  was  intended  to  guard  was  precisely  the  same 
danger  which  afterwards  was  made  the  ground  of  war.  It 
will  be  difficult  to  prove  that  a danger  which  was  sufficient 
to  justify  the  war  was  insufficient  to  justify  the  provisions  of 
the  treaty.  If,  as  Lord  Mahon  contends,  it  was  better  that 
Spain  should  be  subjugated  by  main  force  than  that  she 
should  be  governed  by  a Bourbon,  it  was  surely  better  that 
she  should  be  deprived  of  Sicily  and  the  Milanese  than  that 
she  should  be  governed  by  a Bourbon. 

Whether  the  treaty  was  judiciously  framed  is  quite 
another  question.  We  disapprove  of  the  stipulations.  But 
we  disapprove  of  them,  not  because  we  think  them  bad,  but 
because  we  think  that  there  was  no  chance  of  their  being 
executed.  Lewis  was  the  most  faithless  of  politicians.  He 
hated  the  Dutch.  He  hated  the  Government  which  the 
Revolution  had  established  in  England.  He  had  every  dis- 
position to  quarrel  with  his  new  allies.  It  was  quite  certain 
that  he  would  not  observe  his  engagements,  if  it  should  be 
for  his  interest  to  violate  them.  Even  if  it  should  be  for  his 
interest  to  observe  them,  it  might  well  be  doubted  whether 
the  strongest  and  clearest  interest  would  induce  a man  so 
haughty  and  self-willed  to  cooperate  heartily  with  two 
governments  which  had  always  been  the  objects  of  his  scorn 
and  aversion. 

When  intelligence  of  the  second  Partition  Treaty  arrived 
at  Madrid,  it  roused  to  momentary  energy  the  languishing 
ruler  of  a languishing  State.  The  Spanish  ambassador  at 
the  court  of  London  was  directed  to  remonstrate  with  the 
government  of  William ; and  his  remonstrances  were  so 
insolent  that  he  was  commanded  to  leave  England.  Charles 
retaliated  by  dismissing  the  English  and  Dutch  ambassadors. 
The  French  King,  though  the  chief  author  of  the  Partition 
Treaty,  succeeded  in  turning  the  whole  wrath  of  Charles 
and  of  the  Spanish  people  from  himself,  and  in  directing  it 
against  the  two  maritime  powers,  Those  powers  had  now 


790  macaulay’b  miscellaneous  writings. 

no  agent  at  Madrid.  Their  j)erfidious  ally  was  at  liberty  to 
carry  on  his  intrigues  unchecked  ; and  he  fully  availed  hini- 
eelf  of  this  advantage. 

A long  contest  was  maintained  with  varying  success  by 
the  factions  which  surrounded  the  miserable  King.  On  the 
side  of  the  Imperial  family  was  the  Queen,  herself  a Prin- 
cess of  tliat  family.  With  her  were  allied  the  confessor  of 
the  King,  and  most  of  the  ministers.  On  the  other  side 
were  two  of  the  most  dexterous  politicians  of  that  age,  Car- 
dinal Porto  Carrero,  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  and  Ilarcourt, 
the  ambassador  of  Lewis. 

Harcourt  was  a noble  specimen  of  the  French  aristocracy 
in  the  days  of  its  highest  splendor,  a finished  gentleman,  a 
brave  soldier,  and  a skilful  diplomatist.  Ilis  courteous  and 
insinuating  manners,  his  Parisian  vivacity  tempered  with 
Castilian  gravity,  made  him  the  favorite  of  the  whole  court. 
He  became  intimate  with  the  grandees.  He  caressed  the 
clergy.  He  dazzled  the  multitude  by  his  magnificent  style 
of  living.  The  prejudices  which  the  people  of  Madrid  con- 
ceived against  the  French  character,  the  vindictive  feelings 
generated  during  centuries  of  national  rivalry,  gradually 
yielded  to  his  arts  ; while  the  Austrian  ambassador,  a surly, 
pompous,  niggardly  German,  made  himself  and  his  country 
more  and  more  unpopular  every  day. 

Harcourt  won  over  the  court  and  the  city ; Porto  Car- 
rero managed  the  King.  Never  were  knave  and  dupe  better 
suited  to  each  other.  Charles  was  sick,  nervous  and  extrav- 
agantly superstitious.  Porto  Carrero  had  learned  in  the 
exercise  of  his  profession  the  art  of  exciting  and  soothing 
such  minds  ; and  he  employed  that  art  with  the  calm  and 
demure  cruelty  which  is  the  characteristic  of  wicked  and 
ambitious  priests. 

He  first  supplanted  the  confessor.  The  state  of  the  poor 
King,  during  the  conflict  between  his  two  spiritual  advisers, 
was  horrible.  At  one  time  he  was  induced  to  believe  that 
his  malady  was  the  same  with  that  of  the  wretches  described 
in  the  New  Testament,  who  dwelt  among  the  tombs,  whom 
no  chains  could  bind,  and  whom  no  man  dared  to  approach. 
At  another  time  a sorceress  who  lived  in  the  mountains  of 
the  Asturias  was  consulted  about  his  malady.  Several  per- 
sons were  accused  of  having  bewitched  him.  Porto  Carrero 
recommended  the  appalling  rite  of  exorcism,  which  was 
actually  performed.  The  ceremony  made  the  poor  King 
more  nervous  and  miserable  than  ever.  But  it  served  the 


WAS  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


797 


turn  of  the  Cardinal  who,  after  much  secret  trickery,  suc- 
ceeded in  casting  out,  not  the  devil,  but  the  confessor. 

The  next  object  was  to  get  rid  of  the  Ministers.  Madrid 
was  supplied  with  provisions  by  a monopoly.  The  govern- 
ment looked  after  this  most  delicate  concern  as  it  looked 
after  everything  else.  The  partisans  of  the  House  of  Bour- 
bon took  advantage  of  the  negligence  of  the  administration. 
On  a sudden  the  supply  of  food  failed.  Exorbitant  prices 
were  demanded.  The  people  rose.  The  royal  residence 
was  surrounded  by  an  immense  multitude.  The  Queen 
harangued  them.  The  priests  exhibited  the  host.  All  was 
in  vain.  It  was  necessary  to  awaken  the  King  from  his 
uneasy  sleep,  and  carry  him  to  the  balcony.  There  a solemn 
! ])romise  was  given  that  the  unpopular  advisers  of  the  crown 
; should  be  forthwith  dismissed.  The  mob  left  the  palace  and 
I proceeded  to  pull  down  the  houses  of  the  ministers.  The 
adherents  of  the  Austrian  line  were  tliiis  driven  from  power, 
and  the  government  was  intrusted  to  the  creatures  of  Porto 
Carrero.  The  King  left  the  city  in  which  he  had  suffered 
so  cruel  an  insult  for  tlie  magnificent  retreat  of  the  Escurial. 

' Here  his  hypochondriac  fancy  took  a new  turn.  Like  his 
ancestor  Charles  the  Fifth,  he  was  haunted  by  a strange 
curiosity  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  that  grave  to  which  he 
was  hastening.  In  the  cePxietery  which  Philip  the  Second 
I had  formed  beneath  the  pavement  of  the  church  of  St.  Law- 
I rence,  reposed  three  generations  of  Castilian  princes.  Into 
these  dark  vaults  the  unhappy  monarch  descended  by  torch- 
light, and  penetrated  to  that  superb  and  gloomy  chamber 
where,  round  the  great  black  crucifix,  were  ranged  the 
coffins  of  the  kings  and  queens  of  Spain.  There  he  com- 
manded his  attendants  to  open  the  massy  chests  of  bronze  in 
which  the  relics  of  his  predecessors  decayed.  He  looked  on 
the  ghastly  spectacle  with  little  emotion  till  the  coffin  of  his 
first  wife  was  unclosed,  and  she  appeared  before  him — such 
was  the  skill  of  tiie  embalmer — in  all  her  well-remembered 
beauty.  He  cast  one  glance  on  those  beloved  features, 
unseen  for  eighteen  years,  those  features  over  which  corrup- 
tion seemed  to  have  no  power,  and  rushed  from  the  vault 
exclaiming,  She  is  with  God  ; and  I shall  soon  be  with  her.” 
The  awful  sight  completed  the  ruin  of  his  body  and  mind. 
The  Escurial  became  hateful  to  him ; and  he  hastened  to 
Aranjuez.  But  the  shades  and  waters  of  that  delicious 
island-garden,  so  fondly  celebrated  in  the  sparkling  verse  oi 
Caldsron,  brought  no  solace  to  their  unfortunate  master 


798  MACAULAY’ft  MISCELLANEOUS  WIUTINGS. 

Having  tried  medicine,  exercise,  and  amusement  in  vain,  he 
returned  to  Madrid  to  die. 

He  was  now  beset  on  every  side  by  the  bold  and  skilful 
agents  of  the  House  of  Bourbon.  The  leading  politicians 
of  his  court  assured  him  that  Lewis,  and  Lewis  alone,  was 
sufficiently  powerful  to  preserve  the  Spanish  monarchy 
undivided,  and  that  Austria  would  be  utterly  unable  to  pre- 
vent the  Treaty  of  Partition  from  being  carried  into  effect. 
Some  celebrated  lawyers  gave  it  as  their  opinion  that  the 
act  of  renunciation  executed  by  the  late  Queen  of  France 
ought  to  be  construed  according  to  the  spirit,  and  not  ac- 
cording to  the  letter.  The  letter  undoubtedly  excluded  the 
French  Princes.  The  spirit  was  merely  this,  that  ample 
security  should  be  taken  against  the  union  of  the  French 
and  Spanish  crowns  on  one  head. 

In  all  probability,  neither  political  nor  legal  reasonings 
would  have  sufficed  to  overcome  the  partiality  which  Charles 
felt  for  the  House  of  Austria.  There  had  always  been  a 
close  connection  between  the  tv/o  great  royal  lines  which 
sprang  from  the  marriage  of  Philip  and  Juana.  Both  had 
always  regarded  the  French  as  their  natural  enemies.  It 
was  necessary  to  have  recourse  to  religious  terrors  ; and 
Porto  Carrero  employed  those  terrors  with  true  professional 
skill.  The  King’s  life  was  drawing  to  a close.  Would  the 
most  Catholic  prince  commit  a great  sin  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave  ? And  what  could  be  a greater  sin  than,  from  an 
unreasonable  attachment  to  a family  name,  from  an  unchris- 
tian antipathy  to  a rival  house,  to  set  aside  the  rightful  heir 
of  an  immense  monarchy  ? The  tender  conscience  and  the 
feeble  intellect  of  Charles  were  strongly  wrought  upon  by 
these  appeals.  At  length  Porto  Carrero  ventured  on  a 
master-stroke.  He  advised  Charles  to  apply  for  counsel  to 
the  Pope.  The  King  who,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart, 
considered  the  successor  of  St.  Peter  as  an  infallible  guide 
in  spiritual  matters,  adopted  the  suggestion ; and  Porto 
Carrero,  who  knew  that  his  Holiness  was  a mere  tool  of 
France,  awaited  with  perfect  confidence  the  result  of  the 
application.  In  the  answer  which  arrived  from  Rome,  the 
King  was  solemnly  reminded  of  the  great  account  which  he 
was  soon  to  render,  and  cautioned  against  the  flagrant  in- 
justice which  he  was  tempted  to  commit.  He  was  assured 
that  the  right  was  with  the  House  of  Bourbon,  and  reminded 
that  his  own  salvation  ought  to  be  dearer  to  him  than  the 
House  of  Austria.  Yet  he  still  continued  irresolute,  HU 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


799 


attachment  to  his  family,  liis  aversion  to  France,  were  not 
to  be  overcome  even  by  Papal  authority.  At  lengtli  he 
thought  himself  actually  dying.  Then  the  cardinal  re- 
doubled his  efforts.  Divine  after  divine,  well  tutored  for  the 
occasion,  was  brought  to  the  bed  of  the  trembling  penitent. 
He  was  dying'  in  the  commission  of  known  sin.  He  was 
defrauding  his  relatives.  He  was  bequeathing  civil  war  to 
his  people.  He  yielded,  and  signed  that  memorable  Testa- 
mc  nt,  the  cause  of  many  calamities  to  Europe.  As  he  affixed 
his  name  to  the  instrument,  he  burst  into  tears.  “ God,” 
he  said,  “gives  kingdoms  and  takes  them  away.  I am  al- 
ready one  of  the  dead.” 

The  will  was  kept  secret  during  the  short  remainder  of 
his  life.  On  the  third  of  November  1700  he  expired.  All 
Madrid  crowded  to  the  palace.  The  gates  were  thronged. 
The  antechamber  was  filled  with  ambassadors  and  grandees, 
eager  to  learn  what  dispositions  the  deceased  sovereign  had 
made.  At  length  the  folding  doors  were  flung  open.  The 
Duke  of  Abrantes  came  forth,  and  announced  that  the  whole 
Spanish  monarchy  was  bequeathed  to  Philip  Duke  of  Anjou. 
Charles  had  directed  that,  during  the  interval  which  might 
elapse  between  his  death  and  the  arrival  of  his  successor, 
the  government  should  be  administered  by  a council,  of 
which  Porto  Carrero  was  the  chief  member. 

Lewis  acted,  as  the  English  minister  might  have  guessed 
that  he  would  act.  With  scarcely  the  show  of  hesitation, 
he  broke  through  all  the  obligations  of  the  Partition  Treaty, 
and  accepted  for  his  grandson  the  splendid  legacy  of  Charles. 
The  new  sovereign  hesitated  to  take  possession  of  his  do- 
minions. The  whole  court  of  France  accompanied  him  to 
Sceaux.  His  brothers  escorted  him  to  that  frontier  which, 
as  they  weakly  imagined,  was  to  be  a frontier  no  longer. 
“ The  Pyrenees,”  said  Lewis,  “ have  ceased  to  exist.”  Those 
very  Pyrenees,  a few  years  later,  were  the  theatre  of  a war 
between  the  heir  of  Lewis  and  the  prince  whom  France  was 
now  sending  to  govern  Spain. 

If  Charles  had  ransacked  Europe  to  find  a successor 
whose  moral  and  intellectual  character  resembled  his  own, 
he  could  not  have  chosen  better.  Philij)  was  not  so  sickly 
as  his  predecessor,  but  he  was  quite  as  weak,  as  indolent, 
and  as  superstitious ; he  very  soon  became  quite  as  hypo- 
chondriacal and  eccentric ; and  he  was  even  more  uxorious. 
He  was  indeed  a husbmul  of  ten  thousand.  His  first  object 
when  he  became  King  of  Spain,  was  to  procure  a wife. 


800 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


From  tlie  day  of  liis  marriage  to  tlic  day  of  licr  death,  his 
first  object  was  to  have  licr  near  liirn  and  to  do  what  elio 
wished.  As  soon  as  liis  wife  died  liis  first  object  was  to 
procure  anotlier.  Another  was  found  as  unlike  the  former 
as  possible.  But  she  was  a wife  ; and  Philip  was  content. 
Neither  by  day  nor  by  night,  neither  in  sickness  nor  in 
health,  neither  in  time  of  business  nor  in  time  of  relaxation, 
did  he  ever  suffer  her  to  be  absent  from  him  for  lialf  an 
hour.  Ilis  mind  was  naturally  feeble ; and  he  had  re- 
ceived an  enfeebling  education.  He  had  been  brought  up 
amidst  the  dull  magnificence  of  Versailles.  ITis  grandfather 
was  as  imperious  aiul  as  ostentatious  in  his  intercourse  with 
the  royal  family  as  in  public  acts.  All  those  who  grew  up 
immediately  under  the  eye  of  Lewis  had  the  manners  of 
persons  who  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  at  ease. 
They  were  all  taciturn,  shy,  and  awkward.  In  all  of  them, 
except  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  the  evil  went  further  than 
the  manners.  The  Dauphin,  the  Duke  of  Berri,  Philip  of 
Anjou,  were  men  of  insignificant  characters.  They  had  no 
energy,  no  force  of  will.  They  had  been  so  little  accustomed 
to  judge  or  to  act  for  themselves  that  implicit  dependence 
had  become  necessary  to  their  comfort.  The  new  King  of 
Spain,  emanci])ated  from  control,  resembled  that  wretched 
German  captive  who,  when  the  irons  which  he  had  worn  for 
years  were  knocked  off,  fell  prostrate  on  f^e  floor  of  his 
prison.  The  restraints  which  had  enfeebled  the  mind  of 
the  young  Prince  were  required  to  support  it.  Till  he  had 
a wife  he  could  do  nothing;  and  when  he  had  a wife  he  did 
whatever  she  chose. 

While  this  lounging,  moping  boy  was  on  his  way  to  Ma- 
drid, his  grandfather  was  all  activity.  Lewis  had  no  reason 
to  fear  a contest  with  the  Empjire  single-handed.  He  made 
vigorous  preparations  to  encounter  Leopold.  He  overawed 
the  States-General  by  means  of  a great  army.  He  attempted 
to  soothe  the  English  government  by  fair  ])rofessioiis. 
William  was  not  deceived.  He  fully  returned  the  hatred 
of  Lewis;  and,  if  he  had  been  free  to  act  according  to  his 
own  inclinations,  he  would  have  declared  war  as  soon  as 
the  contents  of  the  will  were  known.  But  he  was  bound 
by  constitutional  restraints.  Both  his  person  and  his  meas- 
ures wcio  unpopular  in  England.  His  secluded  life  and  his 
cold  manners  disgusted  a ])eople  accustomed  to  the  grvUceful 
affability  of  Cliarles  the  Second.  His  foreign  accent  and 
his  foreign  attachments  were  offensive  to  the  national  preju 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSfOX  IX  SPAIX. 


801 


dices.  ITis  reic^n  had  been  a season  of  distress,  following  a 
8i3ason  of  ra])idly  increasing  prosperity.  The  burdens  of 
the  late  war  and  the  expense  of  restoring  the  currency  had 
been  severely  felt.  Nine  clergymen  out  of  ten  were  Jaco- 
bites at  heart,  and  had  sworn  allegiance  to  the  new  dynasty, 
only  in  order  to  save  their  benefices.  A large  proportion 
of  the  country  gentlemen  belonged  to  the  same  party.  The 
whole  body  of  agricultural  proprietors  was  hostile  to  that 
interest  which  the  creation  of  the  national  debt  had  brought 
into  notice,  and  which  was  believed  to  be  peculiarly  favored 
by  the  Court,  the  monied  interest.  The  middle  classes 
were  fully  determined  to  keep  out  James  and  his  family. 
But  they  regarded  William  only  as  the  less  of  two  evils ; 
and  as  long  as  there  was  no  danger  of  a counter-revolution, 
were  disposed  to  thwart  and  mortify  the  sovereign  by  whom 
they  were,  nevertheless,  ready  to  stand,  in  case  of  necessity, 
with  their  lives  and  fortunes.  They  w^ere  sullen  and  dis- 
satisfied. “There  was,”  as  Somers  expressed  it  in  a re-' 
markable  letter  to  William,  “ a deadness  and  want  of  spirit 
in  the  nation  universally.” 

E verything  in  England  was  going  on  as  Lewis  could  have 
wished.  The  leaders  of  the  Whig  party  had  retired  from 
power,  and  were  extremely  unpopular  on  account  of  the  un- 
fortunate issue  of  the  Partition  Treaty.  The  Tories,  some 
of  whom  still  cast  a lingering  look  towards  St.  Germain’s, 
-were  in  office,  and  had  a decided  majority  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  William  was  so  much  embarrassed  by  the  state 
of  parties  in  England  that  he  could  not  venture  to  make 
war  on  the  House  of  Bourbon.  He  was  suffering  under  a 
complication  of  severe  and  incurable  diseases.  There  was 
every  reason  to  believe  that  a few  months  would  dissolve 
the  fragile  tie  which  bound  up  that  feeble  body  with  that 
ardent  and  unconquerable  soul.  If  Lewis  could  succeed  in 

f '.reserving  peace  for  a short  time,  it  was  probable  that  all 
lis  vast  designs  would  be  securely  accomplished.  Just  at 
tills  crisis,  the  most  important  crisis  of  his  life,  his  pride 
and  passions  hurried  him  into  an  error,  which  undid  all  that 
forty  years  of  victory  and  intrigue  had  done,  which  pro- 
duced the  dismemberment  of  the  kingdom  of  his  grandson, 
and  brought  invasion,  bankruptcy,  and  famine  on  his  own. 

James  the  Second  died  at  St.  Germain’s.  Lewis  paid 
him  a farewell  visit,  and  was  so  much  moved  by  the  solemn 
parting,  and  by  the  grief  of  the  exiled  queen,  that,  losing 
Bight  of  all  considerations  of  policy,  and  actuated,  as  it 
VoL.  I— 51 


802  macvulay’s  miscellaneous  aveitings. 

should  seem,  merely  by  compassion  and  by  a not  ungenerous 
vanity,  he  acknowledged  the  Prince  of  Wales  as  King  of 
England. 

The  indignation  which  the  Castilians  had  felt  when  they 
heard  that  three  foreign  powers  had  undertaken  to  regulate 
the  Spanish  succession  was  nothing  to  the  rage  with  which 
the  English  learned  that  their  good  neighbor  had  undertaken 
the  trouble  to  provide  them  with  a king.  Whigs  and  Tories 
joined  in  condemning  the  proceedings  of  the  French  Court. 
The  cry  for  war  was  raised  by  the  city  of  London,  and 
echoed  and  re-echoed  from  every  corner  of  the  realm.  Wil- 
liam saw  that  his  time  was  come.  Though  his  wasted  and 
suffering  body  could  hardly  move  without  support,  his  spirit 
was  as  resolute  and  energetic  as  when,  at  twenty-three,  he 
bade  defiance  to  the  combined  forces  of  England  and  France. 
He  left  the  Hague,  where  he  had  been  engaged  in  negotia- 
ting with  the  States  and  the  Emperor  a defensive  treaty 
against  the  ambitious  designs  of  the  Bourbons.  He  flew  to 
London.  He  remodelled  the  ministry.  He  dissolved  the 
Parliament.  The  majority  of  the  new  House  of  Commons 
was  with  the  King;  and  the  most  vigorous  j^reparations 
were  made  for  war. 

Before  the  commencement  of  active  hostilities  William 
was  no  more.  But  the  Grand  Alliance  of  European  Princes 
against  the  Bourbons  was  already  constructed.  The  mas- 
ter workman  died,”  says  Mr.  Burlie,  “but  the  work  was 
formed  on  true  mechanical  principles,  and  it  was  as  truly 
wrought.”  On  the  fifteenth  of  May,  1702,  war  was  pro- 
claimed by  concert  at  Vienna,  at  London,  and  at  the  Hague. 

Thus  commenced  the  great  struggle  by  which  Europe, 
from  the  Vistula  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  was  agitated  during 
twelve  years.  The  two  hostile  coalitions  were  in  respect  of 
territory,  wealth,  and  population,  not  unequally  matched. 
On  the  one  side  were  France,  Spain,  and  Bavaria;  on  the 
other  England,  Holland,  the  Empire,  and  a crowd  of  infe- 
rior Powers. 

That  part  of  the  war  which  Lord  Mahon  has  undertaken 
to  relate,  though  not  the  least  important,  is  certainly  the 
least  attractive.  In  Italy,  in  Germany,  and  in  the  Nether- 
lands, great  means  were  at  the  disposal  of  great  generals. 
Mighty  battles  were  fought.  Fortress  after  fortress  was  sub- 
dued. The  iron  chain  of  the  Belgian  strongholds  was 
broken.  By  a regular  and  connected  series  of  operations 
extending  through  several  ycar^j,  the  French  were  driven 


WAR  OP  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


803 


back  from  the  Danube  and  the  Po  into  their  own  provinces. 
The  war  in  Spain,  on  the  contrary,  is  made  up  of  events 
which  seem  to  have  no  dependence  on  each  other.  The 
turns  of  fortune  resemble  those  which  take  place  in  a dream. 
Victory  and  defeat  are  not  followed  by  their  usual  conse- 
quences. Armies  spring  out  of  nothing,  and  melt  into 
nothing.  Yet  to  judicious  readers  of  history,  the  Spanish 
conflict  is  perhaps  more  interesting  than  the  campaigns  of 
Marlborough  and  Eugene.  The  fate  of  the  Milanese  and  of 
the  Low  Countries  was  decided  by  military  skill.  The  fate 
of  Spain  was  decided  by  the  peculiarities  of  the  national 
character. 

When  the  war  commenced,  the  young  King  was  in  a 
most  deplorable  situation.  On  his  arrival  at  Madrid  he 
found  Porto  Carrero  at  the  head  of  affairs,  and  he  did  not 
think  fit  to  displace  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  his  crown. 
The  cardinal  was  a mere  intriguer,  and  in  no  sense  a states- 
man. He  had  acquired,  in  the  Court  and  in  the  Confes- 
sional, a rare  degree  of  skill  in  all  the  tricks  by  which  weak 
minds  are  managed.  But  of  the  noble  science  of  govern- 
ment, of  the  sources  of  national  prosperity,  of  the  causes  of 
national  decay,  he  knew  no  more  than  his  master.  It  is 
curious  to  observe  the  contrast  between  the  dexterity  with 
which  he  ruled  the  conscience  of  a foolish  valetudinarian, 
and  the  imbecility  which  he  showed  when  ])laced  at  the  head 
of  an  empire.  On  what  grounds  Lord  Mahon  represents 
the  Cardinal  as  a man  “of  splendid  genius,”  “ of  vast  abili- 
ties,” we  are  unable  to  discover.  Lewis  was  of  a very  differ- 
ent opinion,  and  Lewis  was  very  seldom  mistaken  in  his 
judgment  of  character.  “ Everybody,”  says  he,  in  a letter 
to  his  ambassador,  “knows  how  incapable  the  Cardinal  is. 
He  is  an  object  of  contempt  to  his  countrymen.” 

A few  miserable  savings  were  made,  which  ruined  indi- 
viduals without  producing  any  perceptible  benefit  to  the 
state.  The  police  became  more  and  more  inefficient.  The 
disorders  of  the  capital  were  increased  by  the  arrival  of 
French  adventurers,  the  refuse  of  Parisian  brothels  and 
gaming-houses.  These  wretches  considered  the  Spaniards 
as  a subjugated  race  whom  the  countrymen  of  the  new  sov- 
ereign might  cheat  and  insult  with  impunity.  The  King 
sate  eating  and  drinking  all  night,  lay  in  bed  all  day,  yawned 
at  the  council  table,  and  suffered  the  most  important  papers 
to  lie  unopened  for  weeks.  At  length  he  was  roused  by  the 
only  excitement  of  which  his  sluggish  nature  was  suscepti- 


804  Macaulay’s  mscELLANEous  writings. 

Me.  TIis  grandfather  consented  to  let  him  have  a wife 
The  choice  was  fortunate.  Maria  Louisa,  Princess  of  Savoy 
a beautiful  and  graceful  girl  of  thirteen,  already  a woman 
in  person  and  mind,  at  the  age  when  the  females  of  colder 
climates  are  still  children,  was  the  person  selected.  The 
King  resolved  to  give  her  the  meeting  in  Catalonia.  He  left 
his  capital,  of  which  he  was  already  thoroughly  tired.  At 
getting  out  he  was  mobbed  by  a gang  of  beggars.  He,  how- 
ever, made  his  wav  through  them,  and  repaired  to  Barcelona. 

Lewis  was  perfectly  aw^are  that  the  Queen  would  gov- 
ern Philip.  lie,  accordingly,  looked  about  for  somebody  to 
govern  the  Queen.  He  selected  the  Princess  Orsini  to  bo 
first  lady  of  the  bedchamber,  no  insignificant  post  in  the 
household  of  a very  young  wife,  and  a very  uxorious  hus- 
band. The  princess  was  the  daughter  of  a French  peer,  and 
the  widow  of  a Spanish  grandee.  She  was,  therefore,  admi- 
rably fitted  by  her  position  to  be  the  instrument  of  the  Court 
of  Versailles  at  the  Court  of  Madrid.  The  Duke  of  Orleans 
called  her,  in  words  too  coarse  for  translation,  the  Lieu- 
tenant of  Captain  Maintenon  ; and  the  appellation  Avas  well 
deserved.  She  aspired  to  play  in  Spain  the  part  which 
Madame  de  Maintenon  had  played  in  France.  But,  though 
at  least  equal  to  her  model  in  wit,  information,  and  talents 
for  intrigue,  she  had  not  that  self-command,  that  patience, 
that  imperturbable  evenness  of  temper,  which  had  raised  the 
Avidow  of  a buffoon  to  be  the  consort  of  the  proudest  of 
kings.  The  Princess  Avas  more  than  fifty  years  old,  but  Avas 
still  vain  of  her  fine  eyes,  and  her  fine  shape;  she  still 
dressed  in  the  style  of  a girl ; and  she  still  carried  her  flirta- 
tions so  far  as  to  give  occasion  for  scandal.  She  was,  however, 
polite,  eloquent,  and  not  deficient  in  strength  of  mind.  The 
bitter  Saint  Simon  OAvns  that  no  person  Avhom  she  wished 
to  attach  could  long  resist  the  graces  of  her  manners  and  of 
her  conversation. 

We  have  not  time  to  relate  how  she  obtained,  and  how 
she  preserved  her  empire  over  the  young  couple  in  Avhose 
household  she  was  placed,  how  she  became  so  poAverful,  that 
neither  minister  of  Spain  nor  ambassador  from  France  could 
stand  against  her,  hoAv  Lewis  himself  Avas  compelled  to  court 
her,  how  she  received  orders  from  Versailles  to  retire,  how 
the  Queen  took  part  Avith  her  faAmrite  attendant,  hoAV  the 
King  took  part  Avith  the  Queen,  and  hoAv,  after  much 
squabbling,  lying,  shuftling,  bullying,  and  coaxing,  the  dispute 
was  adjusted.  We  turn  to  the  events  of  the  Avar. 


WAR  OP  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


80f 


When  hostilities  were  proclaimed  at  London,  Vienna, 
and  the  Hague,  Philip  was  at  Naples.  He  had  been  witL 
great  difficulty  prevailed  upon,  by  the  most  urgent  represen 
tations  from  Versailles,  to  separate  himself  from  his  wife, 
and  to  repair  without  her  to  his  Italian  dominions,  which 
were  then  menaced  by  the  Emperor.  The  QueCii  acted  ao 
Regent,  and,  child  as  she  was,  seems  to  have  been  quite  as 
competent  to  govern  the  kingdom  as  hei  husband  or  any  of 
his  ministers. 

In  August,  1702,  an  armament,  under  the  command  of 
the  Duke  of  Ormond,  appeared  od  Cadiz.  The  Spanish 
authorities  had  no  funds  and  no  regular  troops.  The  na- 
tional spirit,  however,  supplied  lu  some  degree  what  was 
wanting.  The  nobles  and  farmeis  advanced  money.  The 
peasantry  were  formed  into  what  the  Spanish  writers  call 
bands  of  heroic  patriots,  and  what  General  Stanhope  calls  a 
“ rascally  foot  militia.”  If  the  invaders  had  acted  with 
vigor  and  judgment,  Cadiz  would  probably  have  fallen.  But 
the  chiefs  of  the  expedition  were  divided  by  national  and  pro- 
fessional feelings,  Dutch  against  English  and  land  against  sea. 
Sparre,  the  Dutch  general,  was  sulky  and  perverse.  Bellasys, 
the  English  general,  embezzled  the  stores.  Lord  Mahon  im- 
putes the  ill  temper  of  Spaire  to  the  influence  of  the  repub- 
lican institutions  of  Holland.  By  parity  of  reason,  we  sup- 
pose that  he  would  impute  the  peculations  of  Bellasys  to  the 
influence  of  the  monarchical  and  aristocratical  institutions  of 
England.  The  Duke  of  Ormond,  who  had  the  command  of 
the  whole  expedition,  proved  on  this  occasion,  as  on  every 
other,  destitute  of  the  qualities  which  great  emergencies  re- 
quire. No  discipline  was  kept ; the  soldiers  were  suffered 
to  rob  and  insult  those  whom  it  was  most  desirable  to 
conciliate.  Churches  were  robbed  ; images  were  pulled 
down  ; nuns  were  violated.  The  officers  shared  the  spoil  in- 
stead of  punishing  the  spoilers  ; and  at  last  the  armament, 
loaded,  to  use  the  words  of  Stanhope,  “ with  a great  deal  of 
plunder  and  infamy,”  quitted  the  scene  of  Essex’s  glory, 
leaving  the  only  Spaniard  of  note  who  had  declared  for 
them  to  be  hanged  by  his  countrymen. 

The  fleet  was  off  the  coast  of  Portugal  on  the  way  back 
to  England,  when  the  Duke  of  Ormond  received  intelligence 
that  treasure  ships  from  America  had  just  arrived  in  Europe, 
and  had,  in  order  to  avoid  liis  armament,  repaired  to  the 
harbor  of  Vigo.  The  cargo  consisted,  it  was  said,  of  more 
than  three  millions  sterling  in  gold  and  silver,  besides  much 


806 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


valiuihle  mercliaiulise.  The  ])rospect  of  plunder  reconciled 
all  disputes.  Dutch  and  English,  admirals  and  generals, 
were  equally  eager  for  action.  The  Spaniards  might  with 
the  greatest  ease  have  secured  the  treasure  by  simply  landing 
it ; but  it  was  a fundamental  law  of  Spanish  trade  that  the 
galleons  should  unload  at  Cadiz,  and  at  Cadiz  only.  The 
Chamber  of  Commerce  at  Cadiz,  in  the  true  spirit  of  mo- 
nopoly, refused,  even  at  this  conjuncture,  to  bate  one  jot  of 
its  privilege.  The  matter  was  referred  to  the  Council  of  tho 
Indies.  That  body  deliberated  and  hesitated  just  a day  too 
long.  Some  feeble  preparations  for  defence  were  made. 
Two  ruined  towers  at  the  mouth  of  the  bay  of  Vigo  were* 
garrisoned  by  a few  ill-armed  and  untrained  rustics ; a 
boom  was  thrown  across  the  entrance  of  the  basin  ; and  a 
few  French  shi]3S  of  war,  which  had  convoyed  the  galleons 
from  America,  were  moored  within.  But  all  was  to  no 
purpose.  The  English  ships  broke  the  boom  ; Ormond  and 
his  soldiers  scaled  the  forts  ; the  French  burned  their  ships, 
and  escaped  to  the  shore.  The  conquerors  shared  some  mil- 
lions of  dollars  ; some  millions  more  were  sunk.  When  all 
the  galleons  had  been  captured  or  destroyed  came  an  order 
in  due  form  allowing  them  to  unload. 

When  Philip  returned  to  Madrid  in  the  beginning  of 
1703,  he  found  the  finances  more  embarrassed,  the  people 
more  discontented,  and  the  hostile  coalition  more  formidable 
than  ever.  The  loss  of  the  galleons  had  occasioned  a great 
deficiency  in  the  revenue.  The  Admiral  of  Castile,  one  of 
the  greatest  subjects  in  Europe,  had  fied  to  Lisbon  and 
sworn  allegiance  to  the  Archduke.  The  King  of  Portugal 
soon  after  acknowledged  Charles  as  King  of  Spain,  and  pre- 
pared to  support  the  title  of  the  House  of  Austria  by  arms. 

On  the  other  side,  Lewis  sent  to  the  assistance  of  his 
grandson  an  army  of  12,000  men,  commanded  by  the  Duko 
of  Berwick.  Berwick  was  the  son  of  James  the  Second 
and  Arabella  Churchill.  He  had  been  brought  up  to  expect 
the  highest  honors  which  an  English  subject  could  enjoy  ; 
but  the  whole  course  of  his  life  was  changed  by  the  revo- 
lution which  overthrew  his  infatuated  father.  Berwick  be- 
came an  exile,  a man  without  a country;  and  from  that 
time  forward  his  camp  was  to  him  in  the  place  of  a country, 
and  professional  honor  was  his  patriotism.  He  ennobled 
his  wretched  calling.  There  was  a stern,  cold,  Brutus-like 
virtue  in  the  manner  in  which  he  discharged  the  duties  of  a 
soldier  of  fortune.  His  military  fidelity  was  tried  by  th^ 


WAR  OF  THE  StJCCESSlOK  IK  SPAIIT,  807 

strongest  temptations,  and  was  found  invincy^le.  At  one 
time  he  fought  against  liis  uncle ; at  another  time  he  fought 
against  tlie  cause  of  his  brother ; yet  he  was  never  sus- 
]3ectcd  of  treachery,  or  even  of  slackness. 

Early  in  1704,  an  army  composed  of  English,  Dutch, 
and  Portuguese,  was  assembled  on  the  western  frontier  of 
Spain.  The  Archduke  Charles  had  arrived  at  Lisbon,  and 
a])])eared  in  person  at  the  head  of  his  troops.  The  military 
skill  of  Berwick  held  the  Allies,  who  were  commanded  by 
Lord  Galway,  in  check  through  the  whole  campaign.  On 
the  south,  however,  a great  blow  was  struck.  An  English 
lleet,  under  Sir  George  Rooke,  having  on  board  several 
regiments  commanded  by  the  Prince  of  Hesse  Darmstadt, 
appeared  before  the  rock  of  Gibraltar.  That  celebrated 
stronghold,  which  nature  has  made  all  but  impregnable,  and 
against  which  all  the  resources  of  the  military  art  have  been 
employed  in  vain,  was  taken  as  easily  as  if  it  had  been  an 
open  village  in  a plain.  The  garrison  went  to  say  their 
prayers  instead  of  standing  on  guard.  A few  English 
sailors  climbed  the  rock.  The  Spaniards  capitulated  ; and 
*he  British  flag  was  placed  on  those  ramparts  from  which 
the  combined  armies  of  France  and  Spain  have  never  been 
able  to  pull  it  down.  Rooke  proceeded  to  Malaga,  gave 
battle  in  the  neighborhood  of  that  port  to  a F rench  squad- 
ron, and  after  a doubtful  action  returned  to  England. 

But  greater  events  were  at  hand.  The  English  govern- 
ment had  determined  to  send  an  expedition  to  Spain,  under 
the  command  of  Charles  Mordaunt,  Earl  of  Peterborough. 
This  man  was,  if  not  the  greatest,  yet  assuredly  the  most 
extraordinary  character  of  that  age,  the  King  of  Sweden 
himself  not  excepted.  Indeed  Peterborough  may  be  de- 
scribed as  a polite,  learned,  and  amorous  Charles  the  Twelfth. 
His  courage  had  all  the  French  impetuosity,  and  all  the 
English  steadiness.  His  fertility  and  activity  of  mind  were 
almost  beyond  belief.  They  appeared  in  everything  that 
he  did,  in  his  campaigns,  in  his  negotiations,  in  his  familiar 
correspondence,  in  his  lightest  and  most  unstudied  conver- 
sation. He  was  a kind  friend,  a generous  enemy,  and  in 
deportment  a thorough  gentleman.  But  his  splendid  talents 
and  virtues  were  rendered  almost  useless  to  his  country  by 
his  levity,  his  restlessness,  his  irritability,  his  morbid  crav- 
ing for  novelty  and  for  excitement.  His  weaknesses  had 
not  only  brought  him,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  into  seri- 
ous trouble;  but  had  impelled  him  to  some  actions  alto- 


808 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  weitixVgs. 


getli(3r  unworthy  of  liis  humane  and  noble  nature.  Repose 
was  insupportable  to  him.  He  loved  to  fly  round  Europe 
faster  than  a travelling  courier.  He  was  at  the  Hague  one 
week,  at  Vienna  the  next  week.  Then  he  took  a fancy  to 
see  Madrid ; and  he  had  scarcely  seen  Madrid,  when  he 
ordered  horses  and  set  off  for  Copenhagen.  No  attendants 
could  keep  up  with  his  speed.  No  bodily  infirmities  could 
confine  him.  Old  age,  disease,  imminent  death,  produced 
scarcely  any  effect  on  his  intrepid  spirit.  Just  before  he 
underwent  the  most  liorrid  of  surgical  operations,  his  con- 
versation was  as  sprightly  as  that  of  a young  man  in  the 
full  vigor  of  health.  On  the  day  after  the  operation,  in 
spite  of  the  entreaties  of  his  medical  advisers,  he  would  set 
out  on  a journey.  His  figure  was  that  of  a skeleton.  But 
his  elastic  mind  supported  him  under  fatigues  and  sufferings 
which  seemed  sufficient  to  bring  the  most  robust  man  to  the 
grave.  Cliange  of  employment  wHs  as  necessary  to  him  as 
change  of  place.  He  loved  to  dictate  seven  or  eight  letters 
at  once.  Those  who  had  to  transact  business  with  him 
complained  that  though  he  talked  with  great  ability  on 
every  subject,  he  could  never  be  kept  to  the  point.  Lord 
Peterborough,”  said  Pope,  ‘‘  would  say  very  pretty  and 
lively  things  in  his  letters,  but  they  would  be  rather  too 
gay  and  wandering ; whereas,  were  Lord  Bolingbroke  to 
write  to  an  emperor,  or  to  a statesman,  he  would  fix  on 
that  point  which  was  the  most  material,  would  set  it  in  the 
strongest  and  finest  light,  and  manage  it  so  as  to  make  it 
the  most  serviceable  to  his  purpose.”  What  Peterborough 
was  to  Bolingbroke  as  a writer,  he  was  to  Marlborough  as 
a general.  He  was,  in  truth,  the  last  of  the  knights-errant, 
brave  to  temerity,  liberal  to  profusion,  courteous  in  his 
dealings  with  enemies,  the  protector  of  the  oppressed,  the 
adorer  of  women.  His  virtues  and  vices  were  those  of  the 
Round  Table.  Indeed,  nis  character  can  hardly  be  better 
summed  up,  than  in  the  lines  in  which  the  author  of  that 
clever  little  poem.  Monks  and  Giants^  has  described  Sir 
Tristram. 

“ His  birth,  it  seems,  by  Merlin’s  calculation, 

Was  under  Venus,  Mercury,  and  Mars  ; 

His  mind  with  all  their  attributes  was  mixed. 

And,  like  those  planets,  wandering  and  unfixed. 

From  realm  to  realm  he  ran,  and  never  staid  : 

Kingdoms  and  crowns  he  won  and  gave  away  s 
It  seemed  as  if  Ijis  labors  were  repaid 
By  the  mere  noise  and  movement  of  the  fray  : 


WAR  OF  THB  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


809 


No  conquests  nor  acquirements  had  iie  made  ; 

His  chief  deli^^ht  was,  on  some  festh  e day, 

To  ride  triumphant,  prodigal,  and  proud, 

And  shower  his  wealth  amidst  the  shouting  crowd. 

“ His  schemes  of  war  were  sudden,  unforeseen, ' 

Inexplicable,  both  to  friend  and  foe  ; 

It  seemed  as  if  some  momentary  spleen 
Inspired  the  project  and  impelled  the  blow  ; 

And  most  his  fortune  and  success  were  seen 
With  means  the  most  inadequate  and  low; 

Most  master  of  himself,  and  least  encumbered, 

When  overmatched,  entangled,  and  outnumbered.**^ 

In  June,  1705,  tliis  remarkable  man  arrived  in  Lisbon 
with  five  thousand  Dutch  and  English  soldiers.  There  the 
Archduke  embarked  with  a large  train  of  attendants,  whom 
Peterborough  entertained  munificently  during  the  voyage 
at  his  own  expense.  From  Lisbon  the  armament  proceeded 
to  Gibraltar,  and,  having  taken  the  Prince  of  Hesse  Darm- 
stadt on  board,  steered  towards  the  north-east  along  the 
coast  of  Spain. 

The  first  place  at  which  the  expedition  touched,  after 
leaving  Gibraltar,  was  Alter,  in  Valencia.  The  wretched 
misgovernment  of  Philip  had  excited  great  discontent 
throughout  this  province.  The  invaders  were  eagerly  wel- 
comed. The  peasantry  flocked  to  the  shore,  bearing  pro- 
visions, and  shouting,  “ Long  live  Charles  the  Third.”  The 
neighboring  fortress  of  Denia  surrendered  without  a blow. 

The  imagination  of  Peterborough  took  fire.  He  con- 
ceived the  hope  of  finishing  the  war  at  one  blow.  Madrid 
was  but  a hundred  and  fifty  miles  distant.  There  was 
scarcely  one  fortified  place  on  the  road.  The  troops  of 
Philip  were  either  on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal  or  on  the 
coast  of  Catalonia.  At  the  capital  there  was  no  military 
force,  except  a few  horse  who  formed  a guard  of  honor  round 
the  person  of  Philip.  But  the  scheme  of  pushing  into  the 
heart  of  a great  kingdom  with  an  army  of  only  seven 
thousand  men,  was  too  daring  to  please  the  Archduke.  The 
Prince  of  Hesse  Darmstadt,  who,  in  the  reign  of  the  late 
King  of  Spain,  had  been  Governor  of  Catalonir,  rnd  who 
overrated  his  own  influence  in  that  province,  was  of  opinion 
that  they  ought  instantly  to  proceed  thither,  and  to  attack 
Barcelona.  Peterborough  was  hampered  by  his  instructions, 
and  1‘ound  it  necessary  to  submit. 

On  the  sixteenth  of  August  the  fleet  arrived  before  Bar- 
celona ; and  Peterborough  found  that  the  task  assigned  to 
him  by  the  Archduke  and  the  Prince  was  one  of  almost 


810 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Biiperable  difliculty.  Ono  side  of  the  city  was  ])rotectcd  by 
the  sea ; tlic  oilier  by  the  strong  fortifications  of  Monjuicb. 
TIic  walls  were  so  extensive  that  thirty  thousand  men  would 
scarcely  have  been  suflicient  to  invest  them.  The  garrison 
was  as  numerous  as  the  besieging  army.  The  best  officers 
in  the  Spanish  service  were  in  the  town.  The  hopes  which 
the  Prince  of  Darmstadt  had  formed  of  a general  rising  in 
Catalonia,  were  grievously  disappointed.  The  invaders  were 
joined  only  by  alDOut  fifteen  hundred  armed  j^easants,  whose 
services  cost  more  than  they  were  worth. 

No  general  was  ever  in  a more  deplorable  situation  than 
that  in  which  Peterborough  was  now  placed.  He  had  always 
objected  to  the  scheme  of  besieging  Barcelona.  His  objections 
had  been  overruled.  He  had  to  execute  a project  which  he 
had  constantly  represented  as  impracticable.  His  camp  was 
divided  into  hostile  factions,  and  he  was  censured  by  all. 
The  Archduke  and  the  Prince  blamed  him  for  not  proceed- 
ing instantly  to  take  the  town ; but  suggested  no  plan  by 
which  seven  thousand  men  could  be  enabled  to  do  the  work 
of  thirty  thousand.  Others  blamed  their  general  for  giving 
up  his  own  opinion  to  the  childish  whims  of  Charles,  and  for 
sacrificing  his  men  in  an  attempt  to  perform  what  was  im- 
possible. The  Dutch  commander  positively  declared  that 
his  soldiers  should  not  stir  : Lord  Peterborough  might  give 
what  orders  he  chose ; but  to  engage  in  such  a siege  was 
madness ; and  the  men  should  not  be  sent  to  certain  death 
where  there  was  no  chance  of  obtaining  any  advantage. 

At  length,  after  three  weeks  of  inaction,  Peterborough 
announced  his  fixed  determination  to  raise  the  siege.  The 
heavy  cannon  were  sent  on  board.  Preparations  were  made 
for  re-embarking  the  troops.  Charles  and  the  Prince  of 
Hesse  were  furious ; but  most  of  the  ofiicers  blamed  their 
general  for  having  delayed  so  long  the  measure  which  he 
had  at  last  found  it  necessary  to  take.  On  the  12th  of 
September  there  were  rejoicings  and  public  entertainments 
in  Barcelona  for  this  great  deliverance.  On  the  following 
morning  the  English  flag  was  flying  on  the  ramparts  of  Mon- 
juich.  The  genius  and  energy  of  one  man  had  supplied  the 
place  of  forty  battalions. 

At  midnight  Peterborough  had  called  on  the  Prince  of 
Hesse,  with  whom  he  had  not  for  some  time  been  on  speak- 
ing terms.  “ I have  resolved,  sir,”  said  the  Earl,  “ to  attempt 
an  assault;  you  may  accompany  us  if  you  think  fit,  and  see 
whether  X and  my  men  deserve  what  yon  have  been  pleased 


WAR  OV  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN.  811 

to  say  of  us.”  The  Prince  was  startled.  The  attempt,  he 
said,  was  hopeless,  but  he  was  ready  to  take  his  share ; and, 
without  further  discussion,  he  called  for  his  horse. 

Fifteen  Imndred  English  soldiers  were  assembled  under 
the  Earl.  A thousand  more  had  been  posted  as  a body  of 
reserve  at  a neighboring  convent,  under  the  command  of 
Stanhope.  After  a winding  march  along  the  foot  of  the 
hills,  Peterborough  and  his  little  army  reached  the  walls  of 
Monjuich.  There  they  halted  till  daybreak.  As  soon  as 
they  were  descried,  the  enemy  advanced  into  the  outer  ditch 
to  meet  them.  This  was  the  event  on  which  Peterborough 
had  reckoned,  and  for  which  his  men  were  prepared.  The 
English  received  the  fire,  rushed  forward,  leaped  into  the 
ditch,  put  the  Spaniards  to  flight,  and  entered  the  works  to- 
gether with  the  fugitives.  Before  the  garrison  had  recovered 
from  their  first  surprise,  the  Earl  was  master  of  the  out- 
works, had  taken  several  pieces  of  cannon,  and  had  thrown 
up  a breastwork  to  defend  his  men.  He  then  sent  off  for 
Stanhope’s  reserve.  While  he  was  waiting  for  this  reinforce- 
ment, news  arrived  that  three  thousand  men  were  marching 
from  Barcelona  towards  Monjuich.  He  instantly  rode  out 
to  take  a view  of  them  ; but  no  sooner  had  he  left  his  troops 
than  they  were  seized  with  a panic.  Their  situation  was  in- 
deed full  of  danger ; they  had  been  brought  into  Monjuich 
they  scarcely  knew  how  ; their  numbers  were  small ; their 
general  was  gone ; their  hearts  failed  them,  and  they  were 
proceeding  to  evacuate  the  fort.  Peterborough  received 
information  of  these  occurrences  in  time  to  stop  the  retreat. 
He  galloped  up  to  the  fugitives,  addressed  a few  words  to 
them,  and  put  himself  at  their  head.  The  sound  of  his  voice 
and  the  sight  of  his  face  restored  all  their  courage,  and  they 
marched  back  to  their  former  position. 

The  Prince  of  Hesse  had  fallen  in  the  confusion  of  the 
assault ; but  everything  else  went  well.  Stanhope  arrived  ; 
the  detachment  which  had  marched  out  of  Barcelona  re- 
treated ; the  heavy  cannon  were  disembarked,  and  brought 
to  bear  on  the  inner  fortifications  of  Monjuich,  which 
speedily  fell.  Peterborough,  with  his  usual  generosity,  res- 
cued the  Spanish  soldiers  from  the  ferocity  of  his  victorious 
army,  and  paid  the  last  honors  with  great  pomp  to  his  rival 
the  Prince  of  Hesse. 

The  redibction  of  Monjuich  was  the  first  of  a series  of 
brilliant  exploits.  Barcelona  fell;  and  Peterborough  had 
the  glory  of  taking,  with  a handful  of  men,  one  of  the  larrest 


MACAtJLAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

and  strongest  towns  of  Europe.  Tie  had  also  the  glory,  not 
less  dear  to  his  cliivalrous  temper,  of  saving  the  life  and 
honor  of  the  beautiful  Duchess  of  Pof)oli,  whom  lie  met  fly- 
ing with  dislievelled  hair  from  the  fury  of  the  soldiers.  He 
availed  himself  dexterously  of  the  jealousy  with  which  the 
Catalonians  regarded  the  infiabitants  of  Castile.  He  guaran- 
teed to  the  province  in  the  capital  of  which  he  was  now 
quartered  all  its  ancient  rights  and  liberties,  and  thus  suc- 
ceeded in  attaching  the  population  to  the  Austrian  cause. 

The  open  country  now  declared  in  favor  of  Charles. 
Tarragona,  Tortosa,  Gerona,  Lerida,  San  Mateo,  threw  op<  n 
their  gates.  The  Spanish  government  sent  the  Count  of 
Ija  Torres  with  seven  thousand  men  to  reduce  San  Mateo. 
The  Earl  of  Peterborough,  with  only  twelve  hundred  ^nen, 
raised  the  siege.  His  officers  advised  him  to  be  content 
with  this  extraordinary  success.  Charles  urged  him  to 
return  to  Barcelona ; but  no  remonstrance  could  stop  such 
a spirit  in  the  midst  of  such  a career.  It  was  the  depth  of 
winter.  The  country  was  mountainous.  The  roads  were 
almost  impassable.  The  men  were  ill-clothed.  The  horses 
were  knocked  up.  The  retreating  army  was  far  more  numer- 
ous than  the  pursuing  army.  But  difficulties  and  dangers 
vanished  before  the  energy  of  Peterborough.  He  pushed 
on,  driving  Las  Torres  before  him.  Nules  surrendered  to 
the  mere  terror  of  his  name ; and  on  the  fourth  of  February, 
1706,  he  arrived  in  triumph  at  Valencia.  There  he  learned 
that  a body  of  four  thousand  men  was  on  the  march  to  join 
Las  Torres.  He  set  out  at  dead  of  night  from  Valencia, 
passed  the  Xucar,  came  unexpectedly  on  the  encampment 
of  the  enemy,  and  slaughtered,  dispersed,  or  took  the  whole 
reinforcement.  The  Valencians  could  scarcely  believe  their 
eyes  when  they  saw  the  prisoners  brought  in. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Courts  of  Madrid  and  Versailles, 
exasperated  and  alarmed  by  the  fall  of  Barcelona  and  by 
the  revolt  of  the  surrounding  country,  determined  to  make 
a great  effort.  A large  army,  nominally  commanded  by 
Philip,  but  really  under  the  orders  of  Marshal  Tesse,  entered 
Catalonia.  A fleet  under  the  Count  of  Toulouse,  one  of  the 
natural  children  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  appeared  before 
the  port  of  Barcelona.  The  city  was  attacked  at  once  by 
sea  and  land.  The  person  of  the  Archduke  was  in  consider- 
able danger.  Peterborough,  at  the  head  of  about  three 
thousand  men,  marched  with  great  rapidity  from  Valencia. 
To  give  battle,  with  so  small  a force,  to  a great  regular 


WAR  OF  THF  SUCCESSION  IN^PAIN. 


813 


anny  under  tlie  con  cl  net  of  a Marshal  of  France,  would 
have  been  madness.  The  Earl  therefore  made  war  after 
the  fashion  of  the  Minas  and  Empecinados  of  our  own  time. 
He  took  his  post  on  the  neighboring  mountains,  harassed 
the  enemy  with  incessant  alarms,  cut  off  their  stragglers, 
intercepted  their  communications  with  the  interior,  and  in- 
troduced supplies,  both  of  men  and  provisions  into  the  town. 
He  saw,  however,  that  the  only  hope  of  the  besieged  was  on 
tlie  side  of  the  sea.  His  commission  from  the  British  gov- 
ernment gave  him  supreme  power,  not  only  over  the  army, 
but,  whenever  he  should  be  actually  on  board,  over  the  navy 
also.  He  put  out  to  sea  at  night  in  an  open  boat,  without 
communicating  liis  design  to  any  person.  He  was  picked 
up,  several  leagues  from  the  shore,  by  one  of  the  ships  of 
the  English  squadron.  As  soon  as  he  was  on  board,  he  an- 
nounced himself  as  first  in  command,  and  sent  a pinnace 
with  his  orders  to  the  Admiral.  Had  these  orders  been 
given  a few  hours  earlier,  it  is  probable  that  the  whole 
French  fleet  would  have  been  taken.  As  it  was,  the  Count 
of  Toulouse  put  out  to  sea.  The  port  was  open.  The  town 
was  relieved.  On  the  following  night  the  enemy  raised  the 
siege  and  retreated  to  Roussillon.  Peterborough  returned 
to  Valencia,  a place  whfeh  he  preferred  to  any  other  in 
Spain ; and  Philip,  who  had  been  some  weeks  absent  from 
his  wife,  could  endure  the  misery  of  separation  no  longer, 
and  flew  to  rejoin  her  at  Madrid. 

At  Madrid,  however,  it  was  impossible  for  him  or  for 
her  to  remain.  The  splendid  success  which  Peterborough 
had  obtained  on  the  eastern  coast  of  tlie  Peninsula  had  in- 
spired the  sluggish  Galway  with  emulation.  He  advanced 
into  the  heart  of  Spain.  Berwdek  retreated.  Alcantara, 
Ciudad  Rodrigo,  and  Salamanca  fell,  and  the  conquerors 
marched  towards  the  capital. 

Philip  was  earnestly  pressed  by  his  advisers  to  remove 
the  seat  of  government  to  Burgos.  The  advanced  guard  of 
the  allied  army  was  already  seen  on  the  heights  above  Ma- 
drid. It  was  known  that  the  main  body  was  at  hand.  The 
unfox'tunate  Prince  fled  with  his  Queen  and  his  household. 
The  royal  wanderers,  after  travelling  eight  days  on  bad 
roads,  under  a burning  sun,  and  sleeping  eight  nights  in 
miserable  hovels,  one  of  which  fell  down  and  nearly  crushed 
them  both  to  death,  reached  the  metropolis  of  Old  Castile. 
In  the  mean  time  the  invaders  had  entered  Madrid  in  tri- 
umph, and  had  proclaimed  the  Archduke  in  the  streets  of 


MACAUL.y  'S  JIISCKLLANEOUS  ^VR1TINGS. 


the  imperial  city.  Arragon,  ever  jealous  of  tlie  Castilian 
asceiuleiicy,  followed  the  example  of  Catalonia.  Saragossa 
revolted  without  seeing  an  enemy.  The  governor  whom 
Philip  had  set  over  Carthagena  betrayed  his  trust,  and  sur- 
rendered to  the  Allies  the  best  arsenal  and  the  last  ships 
which  Spain  possessed. 

Toledo  had  been  for  some  time  the  retreat  of  two  am- 
bitious, turbulent,  and  vindictive  intriguers,  the  Queen 
Dowager  and  Cardinal  Porto  Carrero.  They  had  long  been 
deadly  enemies.  They  had  led  the  adverse  factions  of 
Austria  and  France.  Each  had  in  turn  domineered  over 
the  weak  and  disordered  mind  of  the  late  King.  At  length 
the  impostures  of  the  priest  had  triumphed  over  the  bland- 
ishments of  the  woman  ; Porto  Carrero  had  remained  vic- 
torious ; and  the  Queen  had  fled  in  shame  and  mortification, 
from  the  court  where  she  had  once  been  supreme.  In  her 
retirement  she  was  soon  joined  by  him  whose  arts  had 
destroyed  her  influence.  The  Cardinal,  having  held  power 
just  long  enough  to  convince  all  parties  of  his  incompetency, 
had  been  dismissed  to  his  See,  cursing  his  own  folly  and  the 
ingratitude  of  the  Ilouse  which  he  had  served  too  well. 
Common  interests  and  common  enmities  reconciled  the 
fallen  rivals.  The  Austrian  troops  were  admitted  into 
Toledo  without  opposition.  The  Queen  Dowager  flung  off 
that  mournful  garb  which  the  widow  of  a King  of  Spain 
wears  through  her  whole  life,  and  blazed  forth  in  jewels. 
The  Cardinal  blessed  the  standards  of  the  invaders  in  his 
magnificent  cathedral,  aud  lighted  up  his  palace  in  honor  of 
the  great  deliverance.  It  seemed  that  the  struggle  had  ter- 
minated in  favor  of  the  Archduke,  and  that  nothing  re- 
mained for  Philip  but  a j^rompt  flight  into  the  dominions  of 
his  grandfather. 

So  judged  those  who  were  ignorant  of  the  character 
and  habits  of  the  Spanish  people.  There  is  no  country  in 
Europe  which  it  is  so  easy  to  overrun  as  Spain  ; there  is  no 
country  in  Europe  which  it  is  more  difficult  to  conquer. 
Nothing  can  be  more  contemptible  than  the  regular  military 
resistance  which  Spain  offers  to  an  invader ; nothing  more 
formidable  than  the  energy  which  she  puts  forth  when  her 
regular  military  resistance  has  been  beaten  down.  Her  ar- 
mies have  long  borne  too  much  resemblance  to  mobs  ; but  her 
mobs  have  had,  in  an  unusual  degree,  the  spirit  of  armies. 
The  soldier,  as  compared  Avith  other  soldiers,  is  deficient  in 
military  qualities;  but  the  peasant  has  as  much  of  those 


TTAK  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  STAIN. 


815 


qualities  as  the  soldier.  In  no  country  have  such  strong 
fortresses  been  taken  by  surprise  : in  no  country  have  un- 
fortified towns  made  so  furious  and  obstinate  a resistance  to 
great  armies.  War  in  Spain  has,  since  the  days  of  the 
Romans,  had  a character  of  its  own  ; it  is  a fire  which  can- 
not be  raked  out;  it  burns  fiercely  under  the  embers;  and 
long  after  it  has,  to  all  seeming,  been  extinguished,  bursts 
forth  more  violently  than  ever.  This  was  seen  in  the  last 
war.  Spain  had  no  army  which  could  have  looked  in  the 
face  an  equal  number  of  French  or  Prussian  soldiers ; but 
cne  day  laid  the  Prussian  monarchy  in  the  dust ; one  day 
put  the  crown  of  France  at  the  disposal  of  invaders.  No 
Jena,  no  Waterloo,  would  have  enabled  Joseph  to  reign  in 
quiet  at  Madrid. 

The  conduct  of  the  Castilians  throughout  the  War  of 
the  Succession  was  most  characteristic.  With  all  the  odds 
of  number  and  situation  on  their  side,  they  had  been  igno- 
miniously  beaten.  All  the  European  dependencies  of  the 
Spanish  croAvn  Avere  lost.  Catalonia,  Arragon,  and  Valen- 
cia had  acknoAvledged  the  Austrian  Prince.  Gibraltar  had 
been  taken  by  a few  sailors ; Barcelona  stormed  by  a few 
dismounted  dragoons.  The  invaders  had  penetrated  into 
the  centre  of  the  Peninsula,  and  Avere  quartered  at  Madrid 
and  Toledo.  While  these  events  had  been  in  progress,  the 
nation  had  scarcely  given  a sign  of  life.  The  rich  could 
hardly  be  prevailed  upon  to  give  or  to  lend  for  the  support 
of  Avar ; the  troops  had  shoAAm  neither  discipline  nor  cour- 
age ; and  now  at  last,  Avhen  it  seemed  that  all  was  lost, 
when  it  seemed  that  the  most  sanguine  must  relinquish  all 
hope,  the  national  spirit  awoke,  fierce,  proud,  and  uncon- 
querable. The  people  had  been  sluggish  Avhen  the  circum- 
stances might  have  inspired  hope ; they  reserved  all  their 
energy  for  Avhat  appeared  to  be  a season  of  despair.  Cas* 
tile,  Leon,  Andalusia,  Estremadura,  rose  at  once;  evei7 
peasant  procured  a firelock  or  a pike ; the  Allies  were  mas 
tcrs  only  of  the  ground  on  which  they  trod.  No  soldier 
could  wander  a hundred  yards  from  the  main  body  of  the 
invading  army  without  imminent  risk  of  being  poniarded. 
The  country  through  which  the  conquerors  had  passed  to 
Madrid,  and  Avhich,  as  they  thought,  they  had  subdued,  Avas 
all  ’n  arms  behind  them.  Their  communications  with  Por- 
tugal Avere  cut  off.  In  the  mean  time,  money  began,  for  the 
first  time,  to  flow  rapidly  into  the  treasury  of  the  fugitive 
king,  The  day  before  yesterday,”  says  the 


816  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Orsini,  in  a letter  written  at  this  time,  “ the  priest  of  a vii* 
lage  which  contains  only  a hundred  and  twenty  houses 
l>rought  a hundred  and  twenty  pistoles  to  the  Queen.  ‘My 
dock,’  said  he,  ‘ are  asliamed  to  send  you  so  little ; but  they 
beg  you  to  believe  that  in  this  purse  there  are  a hundred 
and  twenty  liearts  faithful  even  to  the  death.’  The  good 
man  wept  as  he  spoke;  and  indeed  we  w^pt  too.  Yester- 
day another  small  village,  in  which  there  are  only  twei  ty 
houses,  sent  us  fifty  pistoles.” 

While  the  Castilians  'were  everywhere  arming  in  the' 
cause  of  Phhip,  the  Allies  were  serving  that  cause  as  effec-- 
tiially  by  their  mismanagement.  Galway  staid  at  Madrid, 
where  his  soldiers  indulged  in  such  boundless  licentiousness 
that  one  half  of  them  were  in  the  hospitals.  Charles  re- 
mained dawdling  in  Catalonia.  Peterborough  had  taken 
Kequena,  and  wished  to  march  from  Valencia  towards  Ma- 
drid, and  to  effect  a junction  with  Galway;  but  the  Arch- 
duke refused  his  consent  to  the  plan.  The  indignant  general 
remained  accordingly  in  his  favorite  city,  on  the  beautiful 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  reading  Don  Quixote,  giving 
balls  and  su23pers,  trying  in  vain  to  get  some  good  sport  out 
of  the  Valencia  bulls,  and  making  love,  not  in  vain,  to  the 
Valencian  women. 

At  length  the  Archduke  advanced  into  Castile,  and  or- 
dered Peterborough  to  join  him.  But  it  was  too  late. 
Berwick  had  already  compelled  Galway  to  evacuate  Madrid ; 
and,  when  the  whole  force  of  the  Allies  was  collected  at 
Guadalaxara,  it  was  found  to  be  decidedly  inferior  in  num- 
bers to  that  of  the  enemy. 

Peterborough  formed  a plan  for  regaining  possession  of 
the  capital.  His  plan  was  rejected  by  Charles.  The  pa- 
tience of  the  sensitive  and  vainglorious  hero  was  worn  out. 
lie  had  none  of  that  serenity  of  temper  which  enabled 
Marlborough  to  act  in  perfect  harmony  with  Eugene,  and 
to  endure  the  vexatious  interference  of  the  Dutch  deputies, 
lie  demanded  |:)ermission  to  leave  the  army.  Pcnnission 
was  readily  granted ; and  he  set  out  for  Italy.  That  there 
in ig] it  be  some  pretext  for  his  departure,  he 'was  comrnis^ 
sioned  by  the  Archduke  to  raise  a loan  in  Genoa  on  the 
Credit  of  the  revenues  of  Spain. 

. From  that  moment  to  the  end  of  the  campaign  the  tide 
of  fortune  ran  strong  against  the  AiiStriah  cause.  Berwdck 
had  placed  his  army  betw^een  the  Allies  and  the  frontiers  of 
Portugal.  They  retreated  on  Valencia,  Utud  arrived  In  that 


WAR  OF  TDE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


817 


province,  leaving  about  ten  tliousand  prisoners  in  the  hands 
of  the  enemy. 

In  January,  1707,  Peterborough  arrived  at  Valencia 
from  Italy,  no  longer  bearing  a public  character,  but  merely 
as  a volunteer.  His  advice  was  asked,  and  it  seemS  to  have 
been  most  judicious.  He  gave  it  as  his  decided  opinion 
tliat  no  offensive  operations  against  Castile  ouglit  to  be  un- 
dertaken. It  would  be  easy,  he  said,  to  defend  Arragon, 
Catalonia,  and  Valencia,  against  Philip.  The  inhabitants 
of  those  parts  of  Spain  were  attached  to  the  cause  of  the 
Aichdukc;  and  the  armies  of  the  House  of  Bourbon  Avould 
be  resisted  by  the  whole  population.  In  a short  time  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  Castilians  might  abate.  The  government 
of  I^hilip  might  commit  unpo])ular  acts.  Defeats  in  the 
Netherlands  might  compel  Lewis  to  withdraw  the  succors 
wliich  he  had  furnished  to  his  grandson.  Then  would  be 
the  time  to  strike  a decisive  blow.  This  excellent  advice 
was  rejected.  Peterborough,  who  had  now  received  formal 
letters  of  recall  from  England,  departed  before  the  opening 
of  the  campaign ; and  with  him  departed  the  good  fortune 
of  the  Allies.  Scarcely  any  general  had  ever  done  so  much 
with  means  so  small.  Scarcely  any  general  had  ever  dis- 
played equal  originality  and  boldness.  He  possessed,  in  the 
highest  degree,  the  art  of  conciliating  those  whom  he  had 
subdued.  But  he  was  not  equally  successful  in  winning  the 
attachment  of  those  Avitli  whom  he  acted.  He  was  adored 
by  the  Catalonians  and  Valencians;  but  he  was  hated  by 
the  prince  whom  he  had  all  but  made  a great  king,  and  by 
the  generals  whose  fortune  and  reputation  were  staked  on 
the  same  venture  with  his  own.  The  English  government 
eould  not  understand  him.  He  was  so  eccentric  that  they 
gave  him  no  credit  for  the  judgment  which  he  really  pos- 
sessed. One  day  he  took  towns  with  horse-soldiers ; then 
again  he  turned  some  hundreds  of  infantry  into  cavalry  at 
a minute’s  notice.  He  obtained  his  political  intelligence 
ehiefly  by  means  of  love  affairs,  and  filled  his  despatches 
with  epigrams.  The  ministers  thought  that  it  would  be 
highly  impolitic  to  intrust  the  conduct  of  a Spanish  war  to 
so  volatile  and  romantic  a person.  They  therefore  gave  the 
command  to  Lord  Galway,  an  experienced  veteran,  a man 
who  ^vas  in  war  what  Moliere’s  doctois  were  in  medicine, 
who  thought  it  much  more  honorable  to  fail  according  to 
^’ule,  than  to  succeed  by  innovation,  and  who  would  have 
fceen  very  much  ashamed  of  himself  if  he'  had  taken  Mon- 
VoL.  1.^62 


818  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wettings.' 

juich  by  means  so  strange  as  tliosc  wliich  Peterborough  em- 
ployed. This  great  commander  conducted  the  campaign  of 
1707  in  tlie  most  scientific  manner.  On  the  plain  of  Alman- 
za he  encountered  the  army  of  the  Bourbons.  lie  drew  up 
his  troops  according  to  the  methods  prescribed  by  the  be^ 
writers,  and  in  a few  hours  lost  eighteen  thousand  men,  a 
hundred  and  twenty  standards,  all  his  baggage  and  all  liis 
artillery.  Valencia  and  Arragon  were  instantly  conquered 
by  the  French,  and,  at  the  close  of  the  year,  the  mountain- 
ous province  of  Catalonia  was  the  only  part  of  Spain  which 
still  adhered  to  Charles. 

‘‘  Do  you  remember,  child,”  says  the  foolish  woman  in  the 
Spectator  to  her  husband,  “ that  the  pigeon-house  fell  the 
very  afternoon  that  our  careless  wench  spilt  the  salt  upon 
the  table?”  “Yes,  my  dear,”  replies  the  gentleman,  “and 
the  next  post  brought  us  an  account  of  the  battle  of  Al- 
manza.” The  approach  of  disaster  in  Spain  had  been  for 
some  time  indicated  by  omens  much  clearer  than  the  mishap 
of  the  saltcellar ; an  ungrateful  prince,  an  undisciplinea 
army,  a divided  council,  envy  triumphant  over  merit,  a man 
of  genius  recalled,  a pedant  and  a sluggard  intrusted  with 
supreme  command.  The  battle  of  Almanza  decided  the 
fate  of  Spain.  The  loss  was  such  as  Marlborough  or  Eugene 
could  scarcely  have  retrieved,  and  was  certainly  not  to  be 
retrieved  by  Stanhope  and  Staremberg. 

Stanhope,  who  took  the  command  of  the  English  army  in 
Catalonia,  was  a man  of  respectable  abilities,  both  in  mili- 
tary and  civil  affairs,  but  fitter,  we  conceive,  for  a second 
than  for  a first  place.  Lord  Mahon,  with  his  usual  candor, 
tells  us,  what  we  believe  was  not  known  before,  that  his 
ancestor’s  most  distinguished  exploit,  the  conquest  of  Mi- 
norca, was  suggested  by  Marlborough.  Staremberg,  a me- 
thodical tactician  of  the  German  school,  was  sent  by  the 
Emperer  to  command  in  Spain.  Two  languid  campaigns 
followed,  during  which  neither  of  the  hostile  armies  did 
anything  memorable,  but  during  which  both  were  nearly 
starved. 

At  length,  in  1710,  the  chiefs  of  the  Allied  forces  resolved 
to  venture  on  bolder  measures.  They  began  the  campaign 
with  a daring  move,  pushed  into  Arragon,  defeated  the 
troops  of  Philip  at  Almenara,  defeated  them  again  at  Sara- 
gossa, and  advanced  to  Madrid.  The  King  was  again  a 
fugitive.  The  Castilians  sprang  to  arms  with  the  same  en- 
thusiasm which  they  had  displayed  iu  1706,  The 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSrOl^  IN  SPAIN.  819 

ors  found  llio  capital  a desert.  Tlie  people  shut  themselves 
up  in  their  liouses,  and  refused  to -pay  any  mark  of  respect 
to  the  Austrian  prince.  It  was  necessary  to  hire  a few 
children  to  shout  before  him  in  the  streets.  Meanwdiile,  the 
court  of  Philip  at  Valladolid  was  thronged  by  nobles  and 

S relates.  Thirty  thousand  peo])le  followed  their  King  from 
ladrid  to  his  new  residence.  Women  of  rank,  rather  than 
remain  behind,  performed  the  journey  on  foot.  The  peas- 
ants enlisted  by  thousands.  Money,  arms,  and  provisions, 
were  supplied  in  abundance  by  the  zeal  of  the  people.  The 
country  round  Madrid  was  infested  by  small  parties  of  irreg- 
ular horse.  The  Allies  could  not  send  off  a dispatch  to 
Arragon,  or  introduce  a supply  of  provisions  into  the 
capital.  It  was  unsafe  for  the  Archduke  to  hunt  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  of  the  palace  which  he  occupied. 

The  wish  of  Stanhope  was  to  winter  in  Castile.  But  he 
stood  alone  in  the  council  of  war;  and,  indeed,  it  is  not 
easy  to  understand  how  the  Allies  could  have  maintained 
themselves,  through  so  unpropitious  a-  season,  in  the  midst 
of  so  hostile  a population.  Charles,  whose  personal  safety 
was  the  first  object  of  the  generals,  was  sent  with  an  escort 
of  cavalry  to  Catalonia  in  November ; and  in  December  the 
army  commenced  its  retreat  towards  Aragon. 

But  the  Allies  had  to  do  with  a master-spirit.  The  King 
of  France  had  lately  sent  the  Duke  of  Vendome  to  com- 
mand in  Spain.  This  man  was  distinguished  by  the  filthi- 
ness of  his  person,  by  the  brutality  of  his  demeanor,  by  the 
gross  buffoonery  of  his  conversation,  and  by  the  impudence 
with  which  he  abandoned  himself  to  the  most  nauseous  of 
all  vices.  His  sluggishness  was  almost  incredible.  Even 
when  engaged  in  a campaign,  he  often  passed  whole  days  in 
his  bed.  His  strange  torpidity  had  been  the  cause  of  some 
of  the  most  serious  disasters  which  the  armies  of  the  House 
of  Bourbon  had  sustained.  But  when  he  was  roused  by  any 
great  emergency,  his  resources,  his  energy,  and  his  presence 
of  mind,  were  such  as  had  been  found  in  no  French  general 
since  the  death  of  Luxembourg. 

At  this  crisis,  Vendome  was  all  himself.  He  set  out 
from  Talavera  with  his  troops,  and  pursued  the  retreating 
army  of  the  Allies  with  a speed  perhaps  never  equalled,  in 
such  a season,  and  in  such  a country.  He  marched  night 
and  day.  He  swam,  at  the  head  of  his  cavalry,  the  flooded 
stream  of  Henares,  and,  in  a few  days,  overtook  Stanhope, 
who  was  at  Brihuega  with  the  left  wing  of  the  Allied  army s 


820  IIACAUT.AY'B  MrSCl:LLAN’‘!:OU.S  W11IT1N-G3* 

‘‘Nobody  with  me,”  says  tlie  Englisli  general,  “ imagined 
that  tliey  had  any  foot  witjiin  some  days’  marcli  of  us;  and 
our  misfortune  is  owing  to  tlie  incredible  diligence  which 
their  army  made.”  Stanho])C  had  l>ut  just  time  to  send  off 
a messenger  to  the  centre  of  the  army,  which  was  some 
..eagues  from  Brihuega,  before  Vendome  was  upon  him.  Tlie 
town  was  invested  on  every  side.  The  walls  were  battered 
with  cannon.  A mine  was  sprung  under  one  of  the  gates. 
The  English  kept  up  a terrible  fire  till  their  powder  was 
spent.  They  then  fought  desperately  with  the  bayonet 
against  overwhelming  odds.  They  burned  the  houses  which 
the  assailants  had  taken.  But  all  was  to  no  purpose.  The 
British  general  saw  that  resistance  could  produce  only  a use- 
less carnage.  lie  concluded  a capitulation  ; and  his  gallant 
little  army  became  prisoners  of  war  on  honorable  terms. 

Scarcely  had  Vendome  signed  the  capitulation,  when  he 
learned  that  Staremberg  was  marching  to  the  relief  of  Stan- 
hope. Preparations  were  instantly  made  for  a general 
action.  On  the  day  following  that  on  which  the  English 
had  delivered  up  their  arms,  was  fought  the  obstinate  and 
bloody  fight  of  Villa-Viciosa.  Staremberg  remained  master 
of  the  field.  Vendome  reaped  all  the  fruits  of  the  battle. 
The  Allies  spiked  their  cannon,  and  retired  towards  Arragon. 
But  even  in  Arragon  they  found  no  place  of  rest.  Vendome 
was  behind  them.  The  guerilla  parties  were  around  them. 
They  fled  to  Catalonia;  but  Catalonia  was  invaded  by  a 
French  army  from  Roussillon.  At  length  the  Austrian  gen- 
eral, with  six  thousand  harassed  and  dispirited  men,  the 
remains  of  a great  and  victorious  army,  took  refuge  in 
Barcelona,  almost  the  only  place  in  Spain  which  still  recog- 
nized the  authority  of  Charles. 

PhilijD  was  now  much  safer  at  Madrid  than  his  grand- 
father at  Paris.  All  hope  of  conquering  Spain  in  Spain  was 
at  an  end.  But  in  other  quarters  the  House  of  Bourbon 
was  reduced  to  the  last  extremity.  The  French  armies  had 
undergone  a series  of  defeats  in  Germany,  in  Italy,  and  in 
the  Netherlands.  An  immense  force,  flushed  with  victory, 
and  commanded  by  the  greatest  generals  of  the  age,  was  on 
the  borders  of  France.  Lewis  had  been  forced  to  humble 
himself  before  the  conquerers.  He  had  even  offered  to 
abandon  the  cause  of  his  grandson  ; and  his  offer  had  been 
rejected.  But  a great  turn  in  affairs  was  approaching. 

The  English  administrntion  which  had  commenced  the 
War  agamst  the  House  of  Bourbon  was  an  administration 


tV'AR  OF  THE  SUCCESSlOJt  SPAIK. 


§21 


Composed  of  Tories.  But  the  war  was  a Whig  war.  It 
was  the  favorite  scheme  of  William,  the  Whig  King.  Lewis" 
had  provoked  it  by  recognizing,  as  sovereign  of  England,  a 

f)rince  peculiarly  hateful  to  the  Whigs.  It  had  placed  Eng- 
and  in  a position  of  marked  hostility  to  that  power  from 
which  alone  the  Pretender  could  expect  efficient  succor.  It 
had  joined  England  in  the  closest  union  to  a Protestant  and 
republican  state,  to  a state  which  had  assisted  in  bringing • 
about  the  Re\  olution,  and  which  was  willing  to  guarantCv^ 
the  execution  of  the  Act  of  Settlement.  Marlborough  and 
Godolphin  found  that  they  were  more  zealously  supported 
by  their  old  opponents  than  by  their  old  associates.  Those 
ministers  who  were  zealous  for  the  war  were  gradually  con- 
verted to  Whiggism.  The  rest  dropped  off,  and  were  suc- 
ceeded by  Whigs.  Cowper  became  Chancellor.  Sunder- 
land, in  spite  of  the  very  just  antipathy  of  Anne,  was  made 
Secretary  of  State.  On  the  death  of  the  Prince  of  Den- 
mark a more  extensive  change  took  place.  Wharton  be- 
came Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and  Somers  President  of 
the  Council.  At  length  the  administration  was  wholly  in 
the  hands  of  the  Low  Church  party. 

In  the  year  1710  a violent  change  took  place.  The 
Queen  had  always  been  a Tory  at  heart.  Her  religious 
feelings  were  all  on  the  side  of  the  Established  Church. 
Her  family  feelings  pleaded  in  favor  of  her  exiled  brother. 
Her  selfish  feelings  disposed  her  to  favor  the  zealots  of  pre- 
rogative. The  affection  which  she  felt  for  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough  was  the  great  security  of  the  Whigs.  That  affec- 
tion had  at  length  turned  to  deadly  aversion.  While  the 
great  party  which  had  long  swayed  the  destinies  of  Europe 
was  undermined  by  bedchamber  women  at  St.  James’s,  a 
violent  storm  gathered  in  the  country.  A foolisli  parson 
had  preached  a foolish  sermon  against  the  principles  of  tho 
Revolution.  The  wisest  members  of  the  government  wero 
for  letting  the  man  alone.  But  Godolphin,  inflamed  with 
all  the  zeal  of  a new-made  Whig,  and  exasperated  by  a nick- 
name which  was  applied  to  him  in  this  unfortunate  dis- 
course, insisted  that  the  preacher  should  be  impeached. 
The  exhortations  of  the  mild  and  sagacious  Somers  were 
disregarded.  The  impeachment  was  brought ; the  doctor 
was  convicted  ; and  the  accusers  were  ruined.  The  clergy 
came  to  the  rescue  of  the  persecuted  clergyman.  The  coun- 
try gentlemen  came  to  the  rescue  of  the  clergy.  A display 
of  Tory  feelings,  such  as  England  had  not  witnessed  since 


822  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  'WRl'IINO^. 

tho  closing  years  of  Charles  the  Second’s  reign,  appalled  the 
Ministers  and  gave  boldness  to  the  Queen.  She  turned  out 
the  Whigs,  called  Harley  and  St.  John  to  power,  and  dis- 
Bolvcd  the  Parliament.  The  elections  went  strongly  against 
the  late  government.  Stanhope,  who  had  in  his  absence 
been  put  into  nomination  for  Westminster,  was  defeated  by 
a Tory  candidate.  The  new  Ministers,  finding  themselves 
masters  of  the  new  Parliament,  were  induced  by  the 
strongest  motives  to  conclude  a peace  with  France.  The 
w^hole  system  of  alliance  in  which  the  country  was  engaged 
was  a Whig  system.  The  general  by  whom  the  English 
armies  had  constantly  been  led  to  victory,  and  for  whom  it 
was  impossible  to  find  a substitute,  was  now,  whatever  he 
might  formerly  have  been,  a Whig  general.  If  Marlborough 
were  discarded  it  was  probable  that  some  great  disaster 
would  follow.  Yet,  if  he  were  to  retain  his  command, 
every  great  action  which  he  might  perform  would  raise  the 
credit  of  the  party  in  opposition. 

A peace  was  therefore  concluded  between  England  and 
the  Princes  of  the  House  of  Bourbon.  Of  that  peace  Lord 
Mahon  speaks  in  terms  of  the  severest  reprehension.  He 
is,  indeed,  an  excellent  Whig  of  the  time  of  the  first  Lord 
Stanhope.  ‘‘  I cannot  but  pause  for  a moment,”  says  he, 
‘‘  to  observe  how  much  the  course  of  a century  has  inverted 
the  meaning  of  our  party  nicknames,  how  much  a modern 
Tory  resembles  a Whig  of  Queen  Anne’s  reign,  and  a Tory 
of  Queen  Anne’s  reign  a modern  Whig.” 

We  grant  one  half  of  Lord  Mahon’s  proposition:  from 
the  other  half  we  altogether  dissent.  We  allow  that  a 
modern  Tory  resembles,  in  many  things,  a Whig  of  Queen 
Anne’s  reign.  It  is  natural  that  such  should  be  the  case. 
The  worst  things  of  one  age  often  resemble  the  best  things 
of  another.  A modern  shopkeeper’s  house  is  as  well  fur- 
nished as  the  house  of  a considerable  merchant  in  Anne’s 
leign.  Very  plain  people  now  wear  finer  cloth  than  Beau 
Fielding  or  Beau  Edgeworth  could  have  procured  in  Queen 
Anne’s  reign.  We  would  rather  trust  to  the  apothecary  of 
a modern  village  than  to  the  physician  of  a large  town  m 
Anne’s  reign.  A modern  boarding-school  miss  could  tell 
the  most  learned  professor  of  Anne’s  reign  some  things  iii 
geography,  astronomy,  and  chemistry,  which  would  surprise 
him. 

The  science  of  government  is  an  experimental  science ; 
and  therefore  it  is,  like  all  other  experimental  sciences,  3 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


823 


proc^'cssivc  science.  Lord  Mnhon  would  have  been  a very 
good  Whig  in  tlie  days  of  Harley.  But  Harley,  whom  Lord 
Mahon  censures  so  severely,  was  very  Whiggish  when  com- 
pared even  with  Clarendon  ; and  Clarendon  was  quite  a demo- 
crat whon  compared  with  Lord  Burleigh.  If  Lord  Mahon 
lives,  as  we  hope  he  will,  fifty  years  longer,  we  have  no  doubt 
that,  as  he  now  boasts  of  the  resemblance  which  the  Tories 
of  our  time  bear  to  the  Whigs  of  the  Revolution,  ho  will 
then  boast  of  the  resemblance  borne  by  the  Tories  of  1882 
to  those  immortal  patriots,  the  Whigs  of  the  Reform  Bill. 

Society,  we  believe,  is  constantly  advancing  in  knowl- 
edge. The  tail  is  now  where  the  head  was  some  generations 
ago.  But  the  head  and  the  tail  still  keep  their  distance. 
A nurse  of  this  century  is  as  wise  as  a justice  of  the  quorum 
and  cust-alorum  in  Shallow’s  time.  The  wooden  spoon  of 
this  year  would  puzzle  a senior  wrangler  of  the  reign  of 
George  the  Second.  A boy  from  the  National  School  reads 
and  spells  better  than  half  the  knights  of  the  shire  in  the 
October  Club.  But  there  is  still  as  wide  a difference  as 
ever  between  justices  and  nurses,  senior  wranglers  and 
wooden  spoons,  members  of  Parliament  and  children  at 
charity  schools.  In  the  same  way,  though  a Tory  may  now 
be  very  like  what  a Whig  wa.s  a hundred  and  twenty  years 
ago,  the  Whig  is  as  much  in  advance  of  the  Tory  as  ever. 
The  stag,  in  the  Treatise  on  the  Bathos,  who  “ feared  his 
hind  feet  would  o’ertake  the  fore,”  was  not  more  mistaken 
than  Lord  Mahon,  if  he  thinks  that  he  has  really  come  up 
with  the  Whigs.  The  absolute  position  of  the  parties  has 
been  altered ; the  relative  position  remains  unchanged. 
Through  the  whole  of  that  great  movement,  which  began 
before  these  party-names  existed,  and  which  will  continue 
after  they  have  become  obsolete,  through  the  whole  of  that 
great  movement  of  which  the  Charter  of  John,  the  institu- 
tion of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  extinction  of  Villanage, 
the  separation- from  the  see.  of  Rome,  the  expulsion  of  the 
Stuarts,  the  reform  of  the  Representative  System,  are  suc- 
cessive stages,  there  have  been,  under  some  name  or  other, 
two  sets  of  men,  those  who  were  before  their  age,  and  those 
w ho  were  behind  it,  those  who  were  the  wisest  among  their 
contemporaries,  and  tliose  who  gloried  in  being  no  wiser  than 
their  great  grandfathers.  It  is  delightful  to  think,  that,  in 
due  time,  the  last  of  those  who  straggle  in  the  rear  of  the 
great  march  will  occupy  the  place  now  occupied  by  the  ad- 
vanced giiard.  The  Tory  Parliament  of  1710  would  hav« 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

Eassed  lor  a most  liberal  Parliament  in  the  days  of  Eliza- 
etli ; and  there  are  at  present  few  members  of  tlie  Con- 
servative Club  who  would  not  have  been  fully  (puilified  to 
sit  with  Halifax  and  Somers  at  the  Kit-cat. 

Though,  tliereforc,  we  admit  that  a modern  Tory  bears 
some  resemblance  to  a Whig  of  Queen  Anne’s  reign,  we  can 
by  no  means  admit  that  a Tory  of  Anne’s  reign  resembled  a 
modern  Whig.  Have  the  modern  Whigs  passed  laws  for 
the  purpose  of  closing  the  entrance  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons against  the  new  interests  created  by  trade.  Do  the 
modern  Whigs  hold  the  doctrine  of  divine  right?  Have 
the  modern  Whigs  labored  to  exclude  all  Dissenters  from 
office  and  Power  ? The  modern  Whigs  are,  indeed,  at  the 
present  moment,  like  the  Tories  of  1712,  desirous  of  peace, 
and  of  close  union  with  France.  But  is  there  no  difference 
between  the  France  of  1712  and  the  France  of  1832?  Is 
France  now  the  stronghold  of  the  “ Popish  tyranny  ” and 
the  “ arbitrary  power  ” against  which  our  ancestors  fought 
and  prayed  ? Lord  Mahon  will  find,  we  think,  that  this 
parallel  is,  in  all  essential  circumstances,  as  incorrect  as  that 
which  Fluellen  drew  between  Macedon  and  Monmouth,  or 
as  that  which  an  ingenious  Tory  lately  discovered  between 
Archbishop  Williams  and  Archbishop  Vernon. 

We  agree  with  Lord  Mahon  in  thinking  highly  of  the 
Whigs  of  Queen  Anne’s  reign.  But  that  part  of  their  con- 
duct which  he  selects  for  especial  praise  is  precisely  the 
part  which  we  think  most  objectionable.  We  revere  them 
as  the  great  champions  of  political  and  of  intellectual  liberty. 
It  is  true  that,  when  raised  to  power,  they  were  net  exempt 
from  the  faults  which  power  naturally  engenders.  It  is  true 
that  they  were  men  born  in  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
<^hat  they  were  therefore  ignorant  of  many  truths  which  are 
familiar  to  the  men  of  the  nineteenth  century.  But  they 
were,  what  the  reformers  of  the  Church  were  before  them, 
and  what  the  reformers  of  the  House  of  Commons  have 
been  since,  the  leaders  of  their  species  in  a right  direction. 
It  is  true  that  they  did  not  allow  to  political  discussion 
that  latitude  which  to  us  appears  reasonable  and  safe ; but 
to  them  we  owe  the  removal  of  the  Censorship.  It  is  true 
that  they  did  not  carry  the  principle  of  religious  liberty  to 
its  full  extent;  but  to  them  we  owe  the  Toleration  Act. 

Though,  however,  we  think  that  the  Whigs  of  Anne’s 
reign,  were,  as  a body,  far  superior  in  wisdom  and  public 
virtue  to  their  contemporaries  the  Tories^  we  by  no  means 


WAU  or  TnE  SUCCESSION  In  SPAilf. 


825 


hold  ourselves  bound  to  defend  all  llie  measures  our 
favorite  party.  A life  of  action,  if  it  is  to  be  useful,  must 
be  a life  of  compromise.  But  speculation  admits  of  no 
compromise.  A public  man  is  often  under  the  necessity  of 
consenting  to  measures  which  he  dislikes,  lest  he  should 
endanger  the  success  of  measures  which  he  thinks  of 
vital  importance.  But  the  historian  lies  under  no  such 
necessity.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  one  of  his  most  sacred 
duties  to  point  out  clearly  the  errors  of  those  whose  general 
conduct  lie  admires. 

It  seems  to  us,  then,  that,  on  the  great  question  which 
divided  England  during  the  last  four  years  of  Anne’s  reign, 
the  Tories  were  in  the  right,  and  the  Whigs  in  the  wrong. 
That  question  Avas,  Avhether  England  ought  to  conclude 
peace  without  exacting  from  Philip  a resignation  of  the 
Spanish  croAvn  ? 

No  Parliamentary  struggle,  from  the  time  of  the  Ex- 
clusion Bill  to  the  time  of  the  Keform  Bill,  has  been  so 
Auolent  as  that  which  took  place  between  the  authors  of  the 
Treaty  of  Utrecht  and  the  War  Party.  The  Commons 
were  for  peace;  the  Lords  were  for  vigorous  hostilities. 
The  queen  was  compelled  to  choose  which  of  her  two 
highest  prerogatives  she  would  exercise,  whether  she  w^ould 
create  Peers  or  dissolve  the  Parliament.  The  ties  of  party 
superseded  the  ties  of  neighborhood  and  of  blood.  The 
members  of  the  hostile  factions  would  scarcely  speak  to  each 
other,  or  boAv  to  each  other.  The  women  appeared  at  the 
theatres  bearing  the  badges  of  their  political  sect.  The 
schism  extended  to  the  most  remote  counties  of  England. 
Talents,  such  as  had  seldom  before  been  displayed  in  polit- 
ical controversy,  were  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the  hostile 
parties.  On  one  side  was  Steele,  gay,  lively,  drunk  with 
animal  spirits  and  with  factious  animosity,  and  Addison, 
with  his  polished  satire,  his  inexhaustible  fertility  of  fancy, 
and  his  graceful  simplicity  of  style.  In  the  front  of  the 
opposite  ranks  appeared  a darker  and  fiercer  spirit,  the 
apostate  politician,  the  ribald  priest,  the  perjured  lover,  a 
heart  burning  Avith  hatred  against  the  whole  human  race,  a 
mind  richly  stored  Avitli  images  from  the  dunghill  and  the 
lazar-house.  The  ministers  triumphed,  and  the  peace  was 
concluded.  Then  came  the  reaction.  A new  soA^ereign 
ascended  the  throne.  The  Whigs  enjoyed  the  confidence 
of  the  King  and  of  the  Parliament.  The  unjust  severity 
with  which  the  Tories  had  treated  Maidborough  and  Wab 


826  MACACTLAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

])olo  was  more  tlian  retaliated.  Harley  and  Prior  were 
thrown  into  jjrison  ; Bolingbroke  and  Ormond  were  com- 
oeiled  to  take  refuge  in  a foreign  land.  The  wounds  in- 
flicted in  this  desperate  conflict  continued  to  rankle  for 
many  years.  It  was  long  before  the  members  of  either 
])arty  could  discuss  the  question  of  the  peace  of  Utrecht 
with  calmness  and  impartiality.  That  the  Whig  Ministers 
liad  sold  us  to  the  Dutch ; that  the  Tory  Ministers  had  sold 
ns  to  the  French ; that  the  war  had  been  carried  on  only 
to  fill  the  pockets  of  Marlborough ; that  the  peace  had  been 
concluded  only  to  facilitate  the  return  of  the  Pretender ; 
these  imputations  and  many  others,  utterly  unfounded,  or 
grossly  exaggerated,  were  hurled  backward  and  forward  by 
the  political  disputants  of  the  last  century.  In  our  time  the 
question  may  be  discussed  without  irritation.  We  will 
state,  as  concisely  as  possible,  the  reasons  which  have  led 
us  to  the  conclusion  at  which  we  have  arrived. 

The  dangers  which  were  to  be  apprehended  from  the 
peace  were  two  ; first,  the  danger  tliat  Philip  might  be  in- 
duced, by  feelings  of  private  affection,  to  act  in  strict  con- 
cert with  the  elder  branch  of  his  house,  to  favor  the  French 
trade  at  the  expense  of  England,  and  to  side  with  the 
French  government  in  future  wars  ; secondly,  the  danger 
that  the  posterity  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  might  become 
extinct,  that  Philip  might  become  heir  by  blood  to  the 
French  crown,  and  that  thus  two  great  monarchies  might 
be  united  under  one  sovereign. 

The  first  danger  appears  to  us  altogether  chimerical. 
Family  affection  has  seldom  produced  much  effect  on  the 
policy  of  princes.  The  state  of  Europe  at  the  time  of  the 
peace  of  Utrecht  proved  that  in  politics  the  ties  of  interest 
are  much  stronger  than  those  of  consanguinity  or  affinity. 
Tl]  e Elector  of  Bavaria  had  been  driven  from  his  dominions 
l>y  his  father-in-law ; Victor  Amadeus  was  in  arms  against 
Ids  sons-in-law ; Anne  was  seated  on  a throne  from  which 
she  had  assisted  to  push  a most  indulgent  father.  It  is  true 
that  Philip  had  been  accustomed  from  childhood  to  regard 
his  grandfather  wdth  profound  veneration.  It  was  probable, 
therefore,  that  the  influence  of  Lewis  at  Madrid  would  be 
very  great.  But  Lewis  was  more  than  seventy  years  old  ; 
he  could  not  live  long ; his  heir  was  an  infant  in  the  cradle. 
There  was  surely  no  reason  to  think  that  the  policy  of  the 
King  of  Spain  would  be  swayed  by  his  regard  for  a nephew 
whom  he  had  never  seen. 


WAK  OF  THE  SUCCESSIOK  IK  SPAIK. 


827 


In  fact,  soon  after  the  peace,  the  two  branches  of  the 
House  of  Bourbon  began  to  quarrel.  A close  alliance  was 
formed  between  Philip  and  Charles,  lately  competitors  for 
the  Castilian  crown.  A Spanish  princess,  betrothed  to  the 
King  of  France,  was  sent  back  in  the  most  insulting  manner 
to  her  native  country  ; and  a decree  was  put  forth  by  the 
Court  of  Madrid  commanding  every  Frenchman  to  leave 
Spain.  It  is  true  that,  fifty  years  after  the  peace  of  Utrecht, 
an  alliance  of  peculiar  strictness  was  formed  between  the 
French  and  Spanish  governments.  But  both  governments 
were  actuated  on  that  occasion,  not  by  domestic  affection, 
but  by  common  interests,  and  common  enmities.  Their 
compact,  though  called  the  Family  Compact,  was  as  purely 
a political  compact  as  the  league  of  Cambrai  or  the  league 
of  Pilnitz. 

The  second  danger  was  that  Philip-might  have  succeeded 
to  the  crown  of  his  native  country.  This  did  not  happen  : 
but  it  might  have  happened  ; and  at  one  time  it  seemed 
very  hkely  to  happen.  A sickly  child  alone  stood  between 
the  King  of  Spain  and  the  heritage  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth. 
Philip,  it  is  true,  solemnly  renounced  his  claim  to  the  French 
crown.  But  the  manner  in  which  he  had  obtained  posses- 
sion of  the  Spanish  crown  had  proved  the  inefiicacy  of  such 
renunciations.  The  French  lawyers  declared  Philip’s  re- 
nunciation null,  as  being  inconsistent  with  the  fundamental 
law  of  the  realm.  The  French  people  would  probably  have 
sided  with  him  whom  they  would  have  considered  as  the 
rightful  heir.  Saint  Simon,  though  much  less  zealous  for 
hereditary  monarchy  than  most  of  his  countrymen,  and 
though  strongly  attached  to  the  Regent,  declared,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  that  prince,  that  he  never  would  support  the  claims 
of  the  House  of  Orleans  against  those  of  the  King  of  Spain. 
‘Hf  such,”  he  said,  “ be  my  feelings,  Tvhat  must  be  the  feel- 
ings of  others  ? ” Bolingbroke,  it  is  certain,  was  fully  con- 
vinced that  the  renunciation  was  worth  no  more  than  the 
paper  on  which  it  was  written,  and  demanded  it  only  for  the 
purpose  of  blinding  the  English  Parliament  and  people. 

Yet,  though  it  was  at  one  time  probable  that  the  poster « 
:ty  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  would  become  extinct,  and 
though  it  is  almost  certain  that,  if  the  posterity  of  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy  had  become  extinct,  Philip  would  have  suc- 
cessfully preferred  his  claim  to  the  crown  of  France,  we 
still  defend  the  principle  of  the  treaty  of  Utrecht.  In  the 
first  place,  Charles  had,  soon  after  the  battle  of  Villa-Viciosa, 


8i^8  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

inherited,  by  the  death  of  liis  elder  brother,  all  the  domin- 
ions  of  the  House  of  Austria.  Surely,  if  to  these  dominions 
he  had  added  the  whole  monarchy  of  Spain,  the  balance  of 
power  would  liave  been  seriously  endangered.  The  union 
of  the  Austrian  dominions  and  Spain  would  not,  it  is  true, 
have  been  so  alarming  an  event  as  the  union  of  France  and 
Spain.  But  Charles  was  actually  Emperor.  Philip  was 
not,  and  never  might  be.  King  of  France.  The  certainty 
of  the  less  evil  might  well  be  set  against  the  chance  of  tha 
greater  evil. 

But,  in  fact,  we  do  not  believe  that  Spain  would  long 
have  remained  under  the  government  either  of  an  Emperor 
or  of  a King  of  France.  The  character  of  the  Spanish  peo- 
])lc  was  a better  security  to  the  nations  of  Europe  than  any 
will,  any  instrument  of  renunciation,  or  any  treaty.  The 
same  energy  which  the  people  of  Castile  had  put  forth  when 
Madrid  was  occupied  by  the  Allied  armies,  they  would  have 
again  put  forth  as  soon  as  it  appeared  that  their  country 
was  about  to  become  a French  province.  Though  they  were 
no  longer  masters  abroad,  they  were  by  no  means  disposed 
to  see  foreigners  set  over  them  at  home.  If  Philip  had 
attempted  to  govern  Spain  by  mandates  from  Versailles, 
a second  Grand  Alliance  would  easily  have  effected  what 
the  first  had  failed  to  accomplish.  The  Spanish  nation 
would  have  rallied  against  him  as  zealously  as  it  had  before 
rallied  round  him.  And  of  this  he  seems  to  have  been  fully 
aware.  For  many  years  the  favorite  hope  of  his  heart  was 
that  he  might  ascend  the  throne  of  his  grandfather;  but  he 
seems  never  to  have  thought  it  possible  that  he  could  reign 
at  once  in  the  country  of  his  adoption  and  in  the  country  of 
his  birth. 

These  were  the  dangers  of  the  peace ; and  they  seem  to 
us  to  be  of  no  very  formidable  kind.  Against  these  dan- 
gers are  to  be  set  off  the  evils  of  war  and  the  risk  of  failure. 
The  evils  of  the  war,  the  waste  of  life,  the  suspension  of 
trade,  the  expenditure  of  wealth,  the  accumulation  of  debt, 
require  no  illustration.  The  chances  of  failure  it  is  difficult 
at  this  distance  of  time  to  calculate  with  accuracy.  But  we 
think  that  an  estimate  approximating  to  the  truth  may, 
without  much  difficulty,  be  formed.  The  Allies  had  been 
victorious  in  Germany,  Italy,  and  Flanders.  It  was  by  no 
means  improbable  that  they  might  fight  their  way  into  the 
very  heart  of  France.  But  at  no  time  since  the  commence- 
ment of  the  war  had  their  prospects  been  so  dark  in  that 


WAR  OF  THE  SUCCESSION  IN  SPAIN. 


829 


country  which  was  the  very  object  of  the  struggle.  In 
Spain  they  held  only  a few  square  leagues.  The  temper  of 
the  great  majority  of  the  nation  w^as  decidedly  hostile  to 
them.  If  they  had  persisted,  if  they  had  obtained  success 
equal  to  their  highest  expectations,  if  they  had  gained  a 
series  of  victories  as  splendid  as  those  of  Blenheim  and 
Ramilies,  if  Paris  had  fallen,  if  Lewis  had  been  a prisoner, 
we  still  doubt  whether  they  w^ould  have  accomplished  their 
object.  They  would  still  have  had  to  carry  on  interminable 
hostilities  against  the  whole  population  of  a country  which 
affords  peculiar  facilities  to  irregular  warfare,  and  in  which 
invading  armies  suffer  more  from  famine  than  from  the 
sword. 

We  are,  therefore,  for  the  peace  of  Utrecht.  We  are 
indeed  no  admirers  of  the  statesmen  who  concluded  that 
peace.  Harvey,  we  believe,  was  a solemn  trifler,  St.  John 
a brilliant  knave.  The  great  body  of  their  followers  con- 
sisted of  the  country  clergy  and  the  country  gentry ; two 
classes  of  men  who  were  then  inferior  in  intelligence  to 
decent  shopkeepers  or  farmers  of  our  time.  Parson  Barna- 
bas, Parson  Trulliber,  Sir  Wilful  Witwould,  Sir  Francis 
Wronghead,  Squire  Western,  Squire  Sullen,  such  were  the 
people  who  composed  the  main  strength  of  the  Tory  party 
during  the  sixty  years  which  followed  the  Revolution.  It 
is  true  that  the  means  by  which  the  Tories  came  into  power 
in  1710  were  most  disreputable.  It  is  true  that  the  manner 
in  which  they  used  their  power  was  often  unjust  and  cruel. 
It  is  true  that,  in  order  to  bring  about  their  favorite  projects 
of  peace,  they  resorted  to  slander  and  deception,  without  the 
slightest  scruple.  It  is  true  that  they  passed  off  on  the 
British  nation  a renunciation  which  they  knew  to  be  invalid. 
It  is  true  that  they  gave  up  the  Catalans  to  the  vengeance 
of  Philip,  in  a manner  inconsistent  with  humanity  and 
national  honor.  But  on  the  great  question  of  Peace  or  War, 
we  cannot  but  think  that,  though  their  motives  may  have 
been  selfisli  and  malevolent,  their  decision  was  beneficial  to 
the  state. 

But  we  have  already  exceeded  our  limits.  It  remains 
only  for  us  to  bid  Lord  Mahon  heartily  farewell,  and  to  assure 
him  that,  whatever  dislike  we  may  feel  for  his  political 
opinions,  we  shall  always  meet  him  with  pleasure  on  the 
neutral  ground  of  literature^ 


